THE SURFTIME JOURNAL

SURFTIME THE JOURNAL

SEA DREAMS

THE CUP TURNS 20

KELLY SLATER

TOM SERVAIS SINA LUXOR

CAUGHT INSIDE # 128

Sea Dreams.

We all have them. And we are bringing some more to you in this new issue of Surftime Magazine. Consider the photo on the right. Can you see it? Really see it? The dreams that are scrawled on that dream machine?

A child’s sea dreams for all the world to see. A homegrown machine hewn out of the scraps of a snapped board washed up on the beach. The homegrown logos, scrawled with such passion, misspellings and reversals and all. A physical manifestation of passion and desire. The passion for surfing and the desire to belong to the tribe. If this surfer couldn’t get his hands on a real dream board, then let the surf Gods be damned, he would make it himself. The real stuff of sea dreams in a single image. We have a lot of other images of dreams for you too. Take the cover with Tai Graham, once again in the center of perfection at some remote secret spot of his. As always making his sea dreams come true. And even more so as we let him pick the color scheme for the cover itself. Bravo Tai, beautiful. And don’t forget the Rip Curl Cup at Padang Padang turns 20 this year. Hard to believe really. We did our best to illustrate this birthday with a big collage of images from the greatest surf contest Indonesia has ever known. Spend some time with it, feel the legacy. Then get ready. August is just around the corner. Surftime has always supported local surf artists and we are stoked in this issue to feature the folk art of Sina Luxor. In its naivete can be found its timeless meaning. Sina, an Egyptian artist, discovered surfing on a wild European road trip and has been fascinated with it ever since. Again, just spend some time with it and dig the vibe, the simple folksy vibe. All surfers are artists in their own way after all. And we could not be more honored than to have an exclusive photo portfolio from Tom Servais, a master of the form. Spectacular never before published photos from his archives that will have you running for the beach. Tom has captured lightning in a bottle again and again throughout his career and the perfection of his photography is on classic display here. Get into it, put yourself in the same place as the surfers in these images and feel the magic of loving a sport like ours. And on a local note, Pete Frieden gave us something fascinating. Three different sequences of Bronson Meidy that gives us a chance to examine more closely this local surfer’s wild technique. So, Sea Dreams, coming at you right now. Because living with out dreams is like a body without a soul.

-Matt George, Editor-in-Chief

Lost in translation. Photo Matt George

Cover photo: Tai Graham, turning dreams into reality somewhere out on the edge. Adventure may hurt you, but monotony will kill you. Be like Tai. Get out there. Photography by Putu Juliartha.

The Andy Irons bar stool. Proceed with Caution. Photography by Matt George

SEA DREAMS

THE SURFING WILCOXEN FAMILY AND THE MEANING OF LIFE

BY MATT GEORGE

Dylan Wilcoxen living a pipedream reality. Photography by Manu Miguelez

With over a hundred secret spots left in the Mentawai, which do you choose? And why name them when you are the only guy out? Dylan goes with the flow. Photography by Liquid Barrel

The wild men of the jungle dance in concert with it all. Phantoms of skin and gristle and sweat, stomping and spinning, they trance and expel a deep breathy chant. They are festooned with bright feathers and bamboo shoots and slivers of jungle leaves, the tiny embers from their ceremonial tobacco smoldering in their untamed hair. They are surrounded by a circle of sunburned and grinning Kandui Resort surfing guests. The dance is a treat for the guests on their last night at the resort, but the wild men of the jungle are very real and their performance is very real and there is some confusion about this. Tourists are more used to the insincere. These surf guests who have been staying and surfing at the Kandui resort have had their ten days. The next twenty guests were just arriving at their hotel on the mainland, global travel exhausted, readying for the dawn ferry out to this place across the hundred nautical mile strait to the Mentawai Islands off West Sumatra. The guests watching the dancers at the resort would be shipped back to the mainland and the new guests would be shipped in as they have been like clockwork for years and years. The waves never sleep in the Mentawai. And these waves are the the heartbeat of all who visit or live or work here. And the wild men of the jungle dance in concert with it all.

From his usual place on the small bench across from the bar, the owner of the place, Ray Wilcoxen, watches on as he untangles a snarl of fishing line attached to the prized lure of his ten year old boy, Jaden. A wicked looking thing this lure, smelling of seawater and stained with blood, armed with three treble hooks the boy has sharpened himself. The kid would be up at dawn to try his luck again with his lucky lure. The guests had just finished dining on Jaden’s catches of the day. The new guests would probably dine on his tomorrow’s catch as well. Ray picks at the fishing line with the sure hands and the patient eyes of a father of four and watches the wild dancing men of the jungle with an inward smile. He relates to these men.

Out of long born habit, Ray casts his eyes over the considerable dining hall, looking for anything out of order with the lighting. Ray had wired the entire resort himself. Back breaking work. Stoop labor. Especially trudge hauling the huge black cables that ran to the giant generator down island out of the guests hearing range. Jesus, now there’s a memory, he thinks. But it was all worth it. Sure. Countless surf guests had dined under the soft lights of the high ceiling and drank at the long, polished wooden bar regaling stories of past and present.

The whole place, a surfing Viking’s hall, built on sweat equity. Tons of it. But that’s what it takes if you are going to carve a surfing resort out of an island jungle. And he and his team had done it with their bare hands. It had been a big deal. Yeah. Sure was. And the resort had been running like a tuned piano for years and years now and it was finally paying off. Not that Ray was in it for the money. From the beginning there was more going on for him than the money.Ray looks up above the bar where a heavy wooden bar stool hangs from the wall. It bears t he signature of Andy Irons. It was retired there forever upon Andy’s passing. It makes Ray think of all the great surfers that had passed through the resort’s doors. He presses his lips together in a sort of smile at that.

He keeps Andy’s bar stool up there as a sort of reminder. And a warning. Most of Ray’s Mentawai staff had gathered around the outside circle of the guests by now, their favorite part of the performance coming up. The wild men of the jungle had reached the point of the evening when they served up the squirming, thumb sized witchetty grubs, a staple in their diet, as a challenge for any of the guests to try. Swollen and pus white with tiny, rotating onyx heads, the grubs are daunting. But the bruisers among the guests always come forward and there was always at least one woman who was game. ONYA, HALEY!, came a cry. It never, ever failed to bring house down when a woman went for it. Ray had eaten enough of the things to last a lifetime. They

tasted like almonds, not so bad. And now down the hatch they went as the guests squirmed too and as the wild men of the jungle danced in concert with it all. Ray looked around at nothing and everything at once and turned back to his son’s lucky lure. Ray had fallen into this resort business ass backwards after a few economy boat trips out into these islands so many years ago. There was no doubt he fell in love with the place at first wave. As a good surfer, you’d have to have a hole in your head not to. For over twenty years he’d owned his own business as a commercial refrigeration electrician and mechanic. At forty six he’d had enough of missing swells. So he studied up and got his California real estate license and was gonna make a big push for a surfing retirement shilling houses in the South Bay of LA. Every single soul he knew back in Long Beach thought he’d gone insane. But the twist was that at that point he was being paid in waves for surf guiding now and then during the Mentawai peak season. And one day this giant swell barreled through and he heard tell of these guys who were taking a shot at this surf camp thing and that they could use another strong back. The fledgling operation that Ray literally swam into was in financial disarray. The boys there told him that if he had any money, Ray could throw in with them. It just so happened that Ray had just sold his own house in Long Beach, his nest egg to start his real estate business back in the real world. He was cashed up to the gills. One look out at a big set of waves firing down the line across the reef at Rifles was all the time it took.

Jayden Wilcoxen. Man and machines. Photography by Matt George

His Realtor plans were a thing of the past. Capable and used to hard work with his hands, it wasn’t long before Ray had become the face of the entire surf camp operation. The sleeping houses and the big dining hall sprung up like mushrooms. It was to be called the Kandui Resort. Round about this time a surfer named Justis St. John came along for the ride. A former newspaper salesman and at first a freelance videographer for the resort, Justis quickly advanced to the position of operations manager. Justis was as keen a surfer as you could find in Florida for whom the Kandui lefts were a seismic event. Who upon kicking out of his first wave at that particular spot vowed to make the wave his purpose in life. And he had. And he and Ray had never had a spat since.

Now every man needs a wife, so Ray found love in Sumatra and had two boys, Dylan and Jaden. But the island life just wasn’t for her so they split up. Ray found love again with another Sumatran woman who actually understood the whole deal and admiring her and his own formidable luck, he married her. She brought along two of her own nippers from a previous marriage, the enchanting Alin and her precious little sister Naiya. On that marriage altar, on that day, a blended surf family like no other on earth was born. Scanning the room now Ray could see Justis in his own spot over in the corner booth across the great hall. Ray thought about how Justis had dedicated himself to a single wave and a singular life out here on the island. And, like himself, with an Indonesian woman at his side.

Justis and Lina were both on their laptops over there, hard at work on the logistics of the Resort. Or maybe it was the dream villa they were building up the point a bit. At this hour, Ray hoped it was the villa. Ray looked at his scratched up watch. His family, retired after another full day of their island life, would be getting ready for bed in the humble wooden house Ray had built for them out of driftwood and fallen trees. The house was up on top of the point, directly in front of Ray’s beloved Rifles surf spot and as far away from the resort as you could go without jumping in the drink. He had always wanted his family to have their life outside the resort. Still, this life of theirs had made for four, quiet, introspective kids. With guests coming in and out of the revolving door of the resort, Ray’s kids had learned early on that temporary connections with adults didn’t amount to much.

Ray’s son Dylan, practically mute in front of adults, was actually a mischievous Peter Pan that led the village kids and any of the rare visiting youngsters on truly wild adventures. Ripping around on the Jet skis looking for the monsters of the mangroves, fishing expeditions catching beasts damn near as big as their own legs, discovering sea snake lairs and climbing the tallest trees for a good look around. But lately, in the dinghy where Ray and Dylan would wait for the guests to get their fill before Dylan paddled out to set the line-up on fire, father and son conversations had turned to the more early teen mysteries of life and of the surfing destiny that was in his boy’s hands.

Ray Wilcoxen, the patriarch, reaping the rewards of having your priorities straight. Photography by Kandui Resort

The kid was curious and his eyes were bright and Ray figured that could take anyone as far as they wanted to go. It was enough for Ray to be raising all his children in the wild. Children tuned into nature’s frequencies who were physically capable and barefoot and free. This was their home and may the outside world and its greedy demands go to hell for all Ray cared, he was raising kids in sync with the wisdom of the sea and the jungle. Hell yes. Ray had learned a few things after he had once survived a direct lightning strike, and one of them was not the just the value of life, but the meaning of it. The freedom to live however the hell you wanted.

Another roar went up as the first witchetty grub slid down the throat of one of the alpha male guests to be washed down with cold beer and slaps on the back. Ray finished up with the his son’s lure and attached a new stainless leader and laid it out to be found. Ray then got up and strolled over and into the big kitchen. These days Ray strolled everywhere. Even to the boats and the skis and the daydream surf out in front of his family’s house. It was the rhythm of the place, this strolling. He smiled at his kitchen staff and gave them a small laugh and a thumbs up and thanked them for the work of the day in their language. They thumbs upped him back with the smiles that made you want to live in a place like this. He took the back stairs down to his battered scooter and fired it up.

It would be a six minute ride home in the dark back by the mangroves. Along a muddy, rutted jungle path that smelled of what Ray imagined the earth’s damp beginnings would of smelled like. A comforting smell of going home. He had taken this jungle path so many times the scooter could practically make it by itself through the black puddles and the slippery furrows of his family’s countless scooter tracks. With the sound and thoughts of the guests disappearing behind him, Ray took it slow, winding his way out to the point and home. The surf had been been spectacular that day. Again. And Dylan, his oldest at thirteen, had been just as spectacular. About Dylan, Ray remembered thinking at first Was it just me? Some Father’s pride thing? Or was I living with a surfing genius? Because Ray knew good surfing when he saw it. God knows, the absolute best had been going on in his front yard for as long as he cared to remember.

And Ray had since surrendered to the fact that his boy was a prodigy. A natural. Born and allowed in perfect surf whenever he wanted it. Which was always. And that was a hell of a thing. Just one hell of a thing. And a hell of a responsibility too. For the both of them. His boy’s surfing had recently been discovered by the outside world and man, oh man, had it come calling. There was the Rip Curl contract recently signed and that was dizzying. And then Matt Biolos showed up and upon seeing Dylan surf for the first time offered to shape as many boards as Dylan wanted. For life. Biolos’s Mayhem boards had shot Dylan’s surfing into the stratosphere. Then there had been that trip to America that Ray still felt a little guilty about. Dylan had gone on a hard core junket immersed into the whole …LOST world. Griffin, Kolohe, Ian Crane, Pete Matthews, the promo parties, the surfing at Trestles, Dylan’s first wetsuit against his first cold water, the exposure to the world out there with all the evils Ray had left behind in Long Beach a lifetime ago. Then came that night of the phone call. Dylan was in a Waco, Texas hotel room by himself. His own room. Waiting for everyone to show up the next day to surf the artificial wave. A bizarre enough concept for Dylan, let alone being all by himself in his first hotel room. And Ray knew enough about Texas to know that crazy shit goes on there on a daily basis. Hell, crazy was cause for celebration in Texas. But Dylan had managed to get through to the Kandui resort and Ray had stayed on the phone with him most the night, damn the

expense. And Damn me, thought Ray, for letting it happen. Got Ray thinking about just what kind of father he was. It had all worked out in the morning, but so what, Ray thought. He knows he should have been there. No one was to blame but himself. Too much, too early. Dammit. Ray ground his teeth a little at the memory as the jouncing single light of his scooter revealed the jungle in a series of snapshots, a dripping jungle perpetually in the business of taking over the world. Of course Ray was grateful for all the things the people of the world out there were doing for his boy and Ray knew anyone’s star attached to Matt Biolos had a career in surfing if they wanted it. But a more robust vigilance from Ray was called for now. Ray knew his son.

And he knew Dylan had boy dreams of becoming a pro surfer man. But the world tour? That can’t be for just anyone. Did his boy have something to prove like the rest of those guys? The heavy chip on the shoulder? The killer inside? That’s what it takes. What a grind. The training and the entourages and the defeats and the victories and the money and the fans and the travel with giant bags of boards and equipment and the hotel rooms and the single mindedness of it and the industry pressures and the pressures of winning and the pressures of losing and the approvals and disapproval’s and the constant judgments. Can a natural surfer fit into that? Andy never did. Ray had seen that in Andy’s eyes. A loneliness. A restless search for something he already had in the first place. And look how that ended up.

And then for Dylan, a handsome child, there would be the girls. Jesus, the girls. There was a mind blower. Dylan had not stepped on that mine yet but it was right around the corner. Ray wondered after the island life Dylan had led, would instincts be enough to get his boy through that no mans land to safety on the other side? It takes ten men to hold a prodigy down, or one silly girl. Ray knew that much. And the thought damn near sent a shiver down Ray’s spine. And another thing, was his boy to be a Titan like Mick Fanning? An assassin like Kelly Slater? A frantic like the Brazilians? Did Ray want his boy to be any of those things?

Distracted, on the moldering leaves of the jungle floor, Ray almost eats it on the last turn. Recovering, he could now see the lights of home through the giant canopy tree that dominated their yard. It’s totally up to him, Ray thought of Dylan. WQS, WCT? It’s up to him. If Dylan wants the whole banana we’ll figure it all out together and if he does then I trust him to be a good man out there. I know he can surf, everybody will, all I want for him is to find the most powerful place in the world for himself. The most joyful. That’s it. It’s that simple and its been that simple since the beginning of time. And if doesn’t work out he always has all this. This natural life, this simple life of love and belonging waiting for him on his island. He’s thirteen and surfing has been his entire life and his entire education. He’s grown up here and all we do is surf. And everybody that comes here, every single person here is focused on surfing. Even the help. It’s the tip of the spear of surfing fantasies. Every waking moment is the ocean and the jungle and surfing. There is nothing like that anywhere else in the galaxy. And no kid like Dylan anywhere in the galaxy. You think the mangroves are deadly? Try a big city. I am definitely not going to push him off the cliff. If he wants it, if he wants that pro surfer life, I am with him all the way and if he doesn’t I’m here. Right here. All men are created equal but does that apply to little boys? Boys are not created equal, that’s what brings their success or their ruin. And that prodigy thing.

That attention. That scrutiny. Those judgments. That Andy thing. Yes, robust vigilance from this point is the answer. And to listen. Just listen to what my boy really wants to do. It’s all up to him.

And there’s no rush. Ray pulls up to the house and parks the scooter in the shed and turns the thing off. After the noise of the resort and the noise of the scooter and the noise in his head, the jungle and ocean sounds descend upon Ray like a melody you would hear from across a lake. Ray takes a moment, listening to the ticking of the cooling engine. Then leaving the key in the bike, he dismounts and stands for a moment facing the house, knowing exactly why he is alive. Ray brushes aside a vague wish that the world would just leave his boy alone and strolls over to the steps of his porch. He climbs them and eases the sliding door open, quiet like. Instead of their upstairs bedrooms, the kids are draped all over the place, sleeping where they fell after their big day. It would be another big day tomorrow. And the day after that. And on and on.

Ray’s wife, Sepni, was smoothly preparing the big bed in the room beyond the couch. Ray could just smell the bleach of the white sheets. Ray opens their small fridge, grabs a soda, steps outside and eases himself onto his seat on the porch. It creaks, familiar under his weight. He gulps a mouthful of the soda, feeling it all the way down. He looks out over the moonlit lineup of Rifles and it looks back. God, the waves I’ve had in my life. He thinks, I’ve had all the perfect waves in the whole damn world. A tangy salt taste is still in the air and though the swell is dying he can see them, his waves, silver gilded and throwing and grinding themselves to a final fizzing halt in the shallows. Ray reaches up and squeezes the top of his nose between his eyes and gives it a good going over. Miracles. These waves. Miracles. Ray drops his hand and leans his head back and thinks about his nickname. All day Ray. Those days are over. At 64 years old he is content. He has made his Shangri-la. He has his lady and he has his Dylan. He has his Jaden, whom Ray often says Dylan better watch out for. Jaden, the cunning fisherman whose surfing is nipping at Dylan’s heels. Ray has his Alin, beautiful Alin, who is already a good enough surfer to shock all the guests. Just today one guest said she was good enough to compete on the world longboard tour. God, not another one, Ray thinks to himself.

And then baby Naiya. Already taking to the sea. With a wise calmness behind her eyes. As if she already realized what she had. Out here where you do not have to push through crowds of people on city streets to get ahead. Pushing and shoving your way through life as it shoves you back, desperately trying to keep you in your place, to sit you down, to foil your struggle to survive until you forget the reasons you live for. No. Not here. Not on this porch. Not on this island. No. This is a natural place. A natural life. A wild life. Wild and natural and free. For me and Sepni and the kids. And the jungle and the reefs and the waves will keep us that way forever, I know they will.

Ray drains the soda and crushes the can in his fist and stands and stretches and pops the cartilage of his bones. His surfer’s bones and his surfer’s muscles beneath his old surfer’s skin. A big long stretch, arms to the night sky and its vast cloak of stars. A rose colored moon was rising on the horizon and its heavenly light would bathe his house, and all in it, throughout the long, restful night. Yes. And so he yawns and turns to go inside the house that he built. To the life his surfing had built and the family that surfing is building.

Stepping over the kids and the surfboards and the toys and the stuffed animals he makes it to his bedroom. There he gets ready for bed and then slips between the cool sheets next to his wife. Half asleep, Sepni moves safe into the crook of his arm and lays her arm across his chest. Smooth, perfect brown skin against his white. And Ray stares at the roof and settles into his pillow and composes his thoughts for sleep. And as he listens to the soft harmonies of his family’s breathing, as he lays there next to his wife, as he lays there with his family, a thought comes to him. He thinks he read it somewhere or maybe he just thought it up. A man is never lost at sea. And this is when Ray Wilcoxen closes his eyelids and descends into a deep, deep slumber, where wild men of the jungle can still dance in concert with it all.

For your next Mentawai adventure please visit: Mentawaiislands.com or Kanduivillas.com

Nayia and Alin. Both tuned in to the jungle rhythm and already turning heads in the surf.

G-LAND ISN’T ALWAYS GNARLY

It all started with a volcano. Rising 3031 meters above sea level, Gunung Agung lords over the island of Bali. The Hindu people of Bali believe that each earth day begins when the first rays of the morning sun touch the volcano’s summit. They call this moment “the morning of the world.” In 1972, a young Australian filmmaker named Alby Falzon debuted a fledgling surf film which featured the first idyllic images of surfing in Bali. He had borrowed the name of his movie from this Hindu summit belief, naming his movie Morning of the Earth instead. And from the moment it flickered on screen in Australia, surfing in Indonesia would never be the same. Surfers flocked to Bali in droves to ride her absolutely perfect waves. Bali was flaming sunsets over golden beaches, postcards of bare-breasted native women, and swirling, impossibly colorful dance troupes in terrifying masks. Fully booked airlines landing on Bali International’s runway 090 afforded a dream view out the starboard windows of the five best waves on the planet marching down the Bukit Peninsula. Surfers would deliberately book their seats on the right side of the aircraft just for the chance to glimpse this otherworldly sight. Bali was exotic, friendly, and cheap. Everything from beach huts to beer was always near at hand for the budget surfer. Why, oh why, look any further for a surfing Shangri-la? Yet it was inevitable that all these global surfing pilgrimages would eventually interrupt the idyll. And as the crowds grew and grew, a few minds turned to the possibility of new discoveries. After all, Indonesia was a country of 17,500 islands. And the fire was lit. And the first place the outer island expansion found was in the Alas Purwo Nature reserve on the edge of a dry jungle named Plengkung. A magnifcient cape of perfect, powerful waves in a jungle setting tailor made to create myths and legends.

And so, named after the fishing village on the northeast base of the great bay called Grajagan, G-land was thrust into the consciousness of the entire surfing world. Today, almost 50 years later, it remains not only the longest running established surf camp in the world, but a playground for international surfers and locals alike. Though its reputation has been solidified by images of giant powerful barrels, there is a kinder side to G-land for those in the know. Especially local families seeking a launching pad for their surfing young. Which is exactly what happened recently when Andrew Nalendra, impresario and owner of this magazine, invited his friends and family to Bobby’s G-Land Camp for a smaller swell jamboree. Along with such luminaries as Bob Hurley, it was the perfect opportunity for Andrew to introduce his two kids, Paris and Helio, to the tubular charms of G-Land without the thundering awe that a big swell brings to the place. These days G-Land is many things to many people and will always be on the radar for any surfer, whether seeking the adrenaline rush of a big swell, or the charm of the simpler magic of calmer days.

Bob Hurley cruising through a mellower afternoon than most. And yet, as always, the perfection of G-land is evergreen. Photography by Donny Lopez

Day’s end at G-Land always brings jungle reflections and fire and the imaginings of the tomorrow.

Helio Nalendra, driving for the light, increasing his potential for the bigger days to come.

Photography by Donny Lopez

At any size, G-land can still intimidate the young, but here Paris Nalendra shows no signs of backing down on the set of the day. Photography by Donny Lopez

Like any good Father, Andrew Nalendra, shows his cubs how it’s done. There is something sacred about surfing with your children. A timeless right and a sacred act.

Photography by Donny Lopez

The old pool table at G-land. A right of passage for any surfer who finds himself at the longest running surf camp on earth.

Suri Jabrik, 15yrs

SInventive, Committed, Graceful.

Training Grounds: Canggu

Surftime Call:“Ignores the challenge of being a girl in the line-up. She just goes out and puts in 100% everytime. The boys treat her as an equal in the line-up and her surfing measures up”. Photography by Tim Hain

Shia Jabrik, 10yrs

Smooth, confident, aware. Training grounds: Canguu

Surftime Call: “His wave judgement is the key. He reads the ocean, gets the right waves. He surfs like he has listened to Indonesian Champion Dad”. Photography by Tim Hain

Supergroms

Jasper Glossop, 11yrs

Explosive, Radical, Complete.

Training grounds: Keramas

Surftime Call: “Surfs like he really enjoys the training. Very strong in the surf. And trained surfers are winning surfers. Just look at Rio”. Photography by Putu Juliartha

Supergroms

Zio Jeksen, 10yrs

Fast, Bold, Tube specialist

Training Grounds: Halfway Beach

Surftime Call: “Lucky to have a Champion Dad like Mustofa Jeksen. Surfs like he is listening. Has learned so much so fast. Surfs like he wants to win the Rip Curl Cup for the old man someday”. Photography by Nobu Foku

Supergroms

Maia Dewi, 15yrs

Brave, Smooth, Calculated. Training grounds: Lakey Peak Surftime Call: “Surfs like she really has a connection with big waves. Relaxed drops, big bottom turns to set things up. Relaxed in juice. Surfs like she loves every second of it”. Photography by bugis@(bagusskrisna)

Supergroms

Kya Jo Heuer, 14yrs

Aggressive, Confident, Mentawai trained Homegrounds: Kandui Lefts

Surftime Call: “Surfing in the Mentawai teaches you how to ride gnarly reef waves. You learn to trust yourself and the lines you choose. Perfect danger waves train you to trust yourself. Kya does just that.”. Photography by Photography by Ega Dora

Where else are you going to see a mother join her Champion son Mega Semadhi on the winners podium to sing the Indonesian National anthem. Or see Clay Marzo win by surfing like he dropped in from another planet. Or see Chris Ward take a knee and propose to his lady at the awards ceremony. Or see the nobility of Made Winada Adi Putra stand tall in the spinning barrel. Or witness a 14 year old Erin Brooks fight her way into the finals. Or heard of a contest with a waiting period that lasts a month. The Rip Curl Cup is Indonesian surfing at it’s best. And it always has been. And it is ours. August. Get Ready.

Meanwhile, over on Nusa Lembongan on easier days, Agus Frimanto is still exploring the limits of small wave performance under the shadow of the crane that still remains in the line-up. Let us never underestimate the abilities of our neighbor island brothers.

Photography by Matt Powers

ALONE: IS IT REALLY THE DREAM?

Accra, Ghana, West Africa

Outside it’s Africa, and I’m afraid. Sitting on the corner of a hotel bed at four o’clock in the morning with my head in my hands afraid. Scared to look out of the small square window that beams in blue moonlight from a broad, whitewashed courtyard. Dreading the sun that will come rolling up over the Central African plains to the east, setting fire to columns of clouds behind the city. Knowing that eventually the night will end, and that I’ll have to pick up my board and be on my way. Remembering Distillideros, on Baja’s Eastern Cape. Sitting in the shade thrown by the fishing panga pulled up on the beach. Blazing sun, gold as a doubloon. The boat’s hull was white with yellow trim and a thick blue nylon hawser tacked down around the gunwales. The sand was whiter still, the ocean silted turquoise. My board was blue, with three white fins and a yellow logo. Above, like a piece of the precious shade ripped up and blown into the sky, a black frigate bird wheeling overhead. More than the mountains or sea or anything between, the desert brings the gift of color.

My good friend Dave Parmenter said it best, when he got back from surfing along the coast of the Namib Desert, 2500 miles south of where I sit right now. He rode alone at a perfect left point called Cape Cross, near Swakopmund. There was a colony of 25,000 sea lions, each one barking themselves hoarse, laughing at Dave’s clumsiness. He would ride alongside the sea lions all day, then in the evening climb up a high dune and listen to the crashing sand. He told me that surfers love the desert because it’s really a slow moving sea. Watched over the centuries towering dunes would be blown by the wind just like waves, their crests steepening and tumbling, then building again in turn, rolling inexorably across an ocean of sand. You can even hear the sand-waves breaking when a crest is blown steep enough, the friction of grain against grain causing tons of toppling sand to roar like the surf.

But outside it’s Africa, and I’m afraid. The first thing I did when I checked into my room at here in Accra was to unpack my surfboard, sliding it gently from its padded bag and laying it on the narrow single bed. A new board, made especially for this trip, so I didn’t know anything about it. Trusted older boards have scars, stories. Memories. This one is shiny and unblemished, and in it I could see my face. My whole life has been reflected back at me from a succession of new surfboards. For other men traditional epochs mark the passing years: high school, college, grad school, weddings, jobs, vacations, retirement. For me, it’s been surfboards. 1967 was the Summer of Love but I remember it as the beginning of the Shortboard Revolution. In 1974 I had the B.K. Lightning Bolt and graduated from Encinal High. 1978, the year I started riding McCoys, I got married for the first time. 1981 was the year of three-fin Thrusters and the beginning of modern history. My life, mapped out on pieces of foam and plastic. But who I am seems far away from this place. All I am is here. From the moment I stumbled out of Kotoka’s terminal with my board and my bike. Stepping into a sweaty, fetid, living Africa, I pressed into a viscous wall of smell: wood smoke, exhaust fumes, open sewers, fresh fruit, burning tires, old trees, the sea, tilled fields, dead birds, live lizards, dried fish and wet babies. People. Mostly the smell of people, carrying chickens in small woven baskets, riding black Chinese bikes, balancing pails of dirty dishwater on their heads. Smelling of stale cologne, like a dead bouquet, and of fresh coconut soap. Smelling Andrew, my taxi driver, who let me load my bike box into the trunk and tie my board to the roof, then tried to charge me three times what a ride into Accra was worth.

“You must understand, Sam,” he said, in surprisingly good English and

with much solemnity. “I am a professional. You must ‘tink of me like a doctor. Now you bargain with a doctor? You look up from the operating table and ‘den say he is charging too much? I am like a doctor, Sam. I hold your life in my hands.”

For emphasis, he took his hands off the pink, fuzzy steering wheel and held them up like a surgeon waiting to be gloved.

“’Dese hands hold in ‘dem your life. Is ‘dat not worth the small amount I have asked.” I assured him that it was, if only he’d put those hands back on the wheel and look where he was going. I told Andrew that I would pay the 15 U.S. dollars he requested: five for the taxi ride and ten for the snow job.

“It is a good ‘ting you met me, Sam,” said Andrew. “All taxi drivers are ‘teefs around here.”

Traffic was chaotic, with three or four lines of cars squeezed into two lanes along Ring Road, the pulsing asphalt artery that skirts around the heart of downtown Accra. As the sun set, the gray sky got even grubbier and everything—from the broad-topped acacia trees to the featureless, square concrete buildings to the lanky kids selling rolls of toilet paper on the side of the road—looked dusty and worn. Horns blared and policemen’s whistles shrilled, but hunkered down in the front seat of the taxi, I couldn’t see much else but billboards. AfriCola, with its pretty palm tree logo. Ubiquitous Sony, Panasonic and Coke signs. Gulder, a local beer, featuring an African vamp with braided hair and a look as predatory as a leopard, a public service AIDS message, showing a neat young couple running hand in hand on the beach, as if desperate to find a condom. I wondered if the girl on the Gulder poster ever made love on the beach. Then I wondered about the beach—for a few moments, I’d forgotten what I was doing here.

At first thought it seemed so simple: ride my bicycle along the coast of Ghana, tow my board and gear behind on a trailer, look for waves that nobody has ever surfed before. Simplicity, or is it vanity? At home in Southern California, it felt so good to describe my plan. I was already basking, thinking that I just loved watching me do stuff like this. But now I’m sitting in a funky hotel room on the other side of the world, not much more than a day away from home and already lonely. Single hanging light-bulb kind of lonely, because we always see ourselves so clearly in those shadows. And I know what it is that makes me feel loneliest. At four o’clock this morning, when I’d finally given up trying to sleep, I picked up my board and laid back down in bed with it. It rested on me, light as a feather, touching my forehead, chest, knees and toes. For the hundredth time thinking about taking off my wedding ring so it wouldn’t tick-tick-tick as I ran my hands down its rails. Eyes shut; the smell of resin and fiberglass.

So outside it’s Africa, and I’m afraid. The way I used to be afraid at 17, sitting on my bed in Alameda, California, up before the dawn, stomach in knots, knowing that if I wanted to be anything like the man I pictured myself to be, I had to pick up my surfboard and get moving. It’s the same feeling all these years later. Hell, I could ride off on my bike right now and people might just glance my way. I could walk right out of here and back to the airport and nobody would notice. It’s this board that makes me different. This surfboard is why I’m sitting here, all alone in a little hotel in Accra, Ghana. I don’t know where I’m headed once the sun comes up, once I’ve assembled my bike and trailer and packed my gear. I don’t even know how to get to the coast, or where I’ll go once I get there. I have no idea what I’ll find, or worse, if I’m even capable of finding it. All I know is that this board is going with me. I may be lonely, but without it I’d be lost.

For the complete story and more from Sam George’s upcoming book, please visit samgeorgeworld.substack.com/

By Kainoa Kester

Surfing is inconvenient. It takes hours of work, money and planning in order to score the short precious moments of elation we feel while riding a wave. On paper, it’s about as unequal of an exchange as you could come up with. Selling something that takes all this work with such short time reward is tough. But Surfers could care less about how it shakes out on paper. Surfing is worth every inconvenience and we all know it.

COVID-19, clearly our generation’s World War Three, created the most trying inconveniences standing between surfers and surfing in history. Dodging quarantines, board shortages and more weren’t just a headache, they were head splitting. COVID-19 was more an adversary than an inconvenience, a bigger threat to us than throwing yourself over the ledge at your local slab. Reef cuts heal, COVID-19 kills. But did we sacrifice surfing? No, the world surfed more than ever.

Our world is wildly over populated and we are destroying our island planet and there will be more culling events in our future. That is how nature works. Put two goldfish in a bowl and they are happy as larks. Put ten in there and they all go belly up. But remember, the water will survive. If mother nature can start a war against humans with an invisible disease as her soldier, then we should prepare for whatever comes with her next offensive. Not with weaponry, but with care. Care for our land, sea and air. It’s gonna happen again in some form, and it’s gonna suck, but we’re still gonna surf. Inconvenience, even during a war like COVID-19, is an afterthought when the waves are firing. It would take an army to stop surfers from surfing, we have proven that. We lived and breathed surfing in the face of a disease that steals that very breath. But all who read this survived. With determination like that, our community might just make it. We’ve have a beautiful world as surfers. If we channel some of our passion towards taking care of our land, seas and air, instead of ignoring them or worse, then the time and work put into surfing won’t look so unequal on paper. And that will make our waves worth any inconvenience, any war, that our tenuous futures can throw at us. Think about what you can do. And then go do it. When you think about it, it’s the only chance we’ve got.

Not as far away as you might think. Tonjo Darmaputra, testing the surf equipment of the future. Unless we do something about it. Photography by Liquid Barrel

Herbert Dell”Monica and the beauty of having a private eye

It’s intimate. That relationship between a surfer and a photographer when they are working together alone. This is what went down when photographer Thiago Okasuka and Herbert Dell”Monica found themselves on this shallow Java reef with no one else around. The surfer and the private eye. The mastery of two unique skills, both physical, both based on positioning, both about seeing, yet directly opposed when it comes to vision. And then the shutter trips and the two principals meet at the precise crossroads of two arts. Art is not what you see, but what you make others see. Photography by

Thiago Okasuka

Would you drive down the line and pump as fast as you could and try to achieve the highest air possible if no one was watching but the jungle? Herbert

Monica, with another two eyes anticipating his every move, need not consider. He need only fly.

Dell”

Photography by Thiago Okasuka

Kelly Slater Refuses to Surrender

By Matt George

An Excerpt from IN DEEP, The collected Surf Writings of Matt George, Di Angelo Pubishing

On February 5th of 2022, when Kelly Slater won his eighth Pipeline Masters title only six days before his 50th birthday, a full 30 years after his first Pipeline Masters title, I wasn’t surprised at all. At this, our sports most prestigious tournament, I had already seen him do it seven times. But it did make me think about the last time I spent some time with him. It was during his summer sojourn to Bali in 2020. A miraculous visit considering the labyrinth of red tape one had to go through to travel anywhere during the Covid-19 global lockdown. Rumor was he got in on an essential business visa, and that made a lot of sense to me, Bali had the best waves on the planet at the time. And though an immigration agent might have a hard time buying it, waves are his business. And he has monetized them on land as well as sea. Let us not forget that this man manufactured his own Ocean in the middle of California’s central valley that features the most extraordinarily perfect artificial surfing wave in history. The Surf Ranch, now a spectacular playground, literally, for the rich and famous. Yes, Kelly Slater is a businessman.

Thinking back now on his visit to Bali, the fallout from that incendiary visit is still descending on the streets of Kuta. After all, it was akin to a royal mission of reassurance during a murderous global pandemic. And man, did he make the most of it.

It would be hard to find a surfer who loves to go surfing outside the contest arena more than him. Though rumors flew that he was in Bali to seek a healing from a barrage of personal subterfuge in his life, his career, finances, his girl, the vagaries of his anti-vax stance that had enraged fans. Yet I say incendiary visit because his surfing here in Bali was electrifying. And it is so hard not to say “as usual”. Every day, absolutely every day, for long, sunburned

Baby Kelly. Photography by Matt George

hours, he would light up line-ups from Java to Sumbawa. Ripping Keramas, Desert Point, G-Land, Scar reef, Padang Padang, Uluwatu, Kuta Beach and more. Kelly, with the help of local wave whisperer Nick Chong, seemed to be wherever the surf was best during what had been the best season of surf in Bali in the last quarter century. As an island known for its healing properties, perhaps he instinctively chose this environment to explore his introspection as well as to recharge his extroverted approach to every wave he catches. Observers herewitnessed his explosive sessions with a sense of wonder. Kelly quietly went about his days, attending the odd evening gathering and working closely with local shaper Mike Woo on top secret surfboard designs said to be based on the ergonomics of a white shark. That really lit up the rumor mill. Yet just short of his 49th birthday, Kelly Slater was still making his statement in the water as the best surfer the world has ever seen. And nowhere was this more evident than in the simple beachbreaks that front Kuta Beach. “In a way”, said top photographer Pete Frieden, a fellow Floridian who has photographed Kelly since he was a child, “Kelly’s beachbreak surfing in Bali was like a return to Florida. Like Sebastian Inlet on the best day of the century”. Again, rumors flew as to where Kelly would be surfing every day, as they would around any surf celebrity who was tearing around a small island on a scooter with a surfboard in its side rack. But that Kelly spent his last days at Kuta, concentrating on the perfect sandbars that have formed just off the downtown beaches was a fact. Sandbars, phenomena in themselves, the likes of which have not been seen for years. The product of the pandemic actually. With no tourist industry to use and abuse them, all the waterways both above and below ground in Bali had been flowing full and trash free onto the sea. Distributing their sands to their rightful homes, forming a series of humping peaks from the Airport jetties to Canggu. A mid to high tide summer wonderland of playful surf. Not the famed Indonesian barrels, but more like quarter pipes where Kelly could jam his rail work and pop his aerials. And that was one of the more startling revelations. Kelly Slater as a master aerialist. Setting up his airs on his all black secretive twin fin designs, made of entirely new composite compounds, at twice the speed of anyone. Kelly was hitting his airs on these superboards with commitment and an 80% success rate. To say nothing of his other skills. Carving 360’s, massive roundhouse cutbacks, fin humming bottom turns. Though everyone else wanted to be surfing near him, the line-up cleared the runway once he took off.

“Do you think he is doing this as practice for the Title final at Trestles?” Said Arya Subiyakto, one of the most respected surfing figures in Indonesia, “Because if he is, Toledo and Medina are in a shitload of trouble”. By contrast, Kelly had a very quiet presence on land. Sitting alone under his favorite shade tree, semi-concealed from small knots of tourists on the beach, Kelly looked meditative between surf sessions. And it was a quiet goodbye to the island as Kelly left the water for the last time of the summer season in Bali. Walking up the beach a little girl, who had no idea who he was, asked him what was on the deck of his surfboard. Kelly took the time to explain the function of surfboard wax and had her scrape her fingernails across the deck of a surfboard that he would not have let another soul on earth even touch. I met him on the promenade to say goodbye and good luck out there on the pro tour. We chatted a bit and compared notes about the trouble we were having with our women. My wife and

his long time girlfriend. Like most men we left it with laughter at how women can just be colossal pains in the ass and there isn’t a goddamn thing we can do about it. Another little kid approached with his beaming Australian family and Kelly took the time to shake his hand. The little kid was catatonic to be standing next to his hero, couldn’t say a word. Kelly asked his parents his name and then crouched down to the kids level and just looked him in the eyes. “You’re gonna make it, Alex”, was all Kelly said with a light squeeze of the shoulder. The kid staggered away with his proud family. Then, sure that our paths would cross again, Kelly and I shook hands and said a simple goodbye and I grabbed my board and paddled out into the surf.

Out beyond the breaking waves I sat on my board and took in a sky that the sunset had set ablaze. And I couldn’t help but think about Kelly. Especially about our ages and how he has refined his to the point that at fifty he still strikes fear into competitors who weren’t even born by the time he won his first world title. How he now had a whole world behind him and and a whole world ahead. Of how surfing is the whole world to him and how that whole world is his. Considering his competitive fervor over his astonishing career, I wondered if there was ever an end of the day for Kelly, or if there was only tomorrow. And I thought of how he is too old to die young, a living legend already an heirloom of surfing’s history. He stands atop Olympus. The master of the only sport on earth that takes place on a dynamic moving surface. And I wondered if it would ever be enough for him. If you can’t ever get enough of what you want, you will always be poor. And I hoped that someday he would be rich in that aspect, finally have enough of winning, I really did. Like a moth that can no longer blame the flame, with a body that must, like an aging fighter jet still in service, be showing signs of metal fatigue, just how much further can this man go? How much further would he need to go? A tiger can only last as long as its teeth. If it wasn’t winning the Pipeline Masters against the best 20 year old surfers in the world at 50 years old, what possible crowning achievement would become his chorale finale of his final symphony? What would it take to distill the torments of a life of ferocious competition into a message in a bottle that he could finally toss into the sea? What would it be that could contain all the creativity and rage and redemption and poetic fury of his life and lay it in clover as a thing of wonder and beauty and vitality laid to rest? What could take all this suffering and this desire and all this winning and set it in a halcyon chalice to be regarded forever as something incandescent, something superhuman?

I surfed a wave to shore then. And as I strolled up the beach I thought of those infamous words that I had written about Kelly over thirty years previous. The final lines of that first profile I wrote about him, about regardless of all that was going on with him at seventeen, that he still slept like an angel. And it stopped me in my tracks. Devil knows they still rang true. The world was still whirling around Kelly like a maelstrom as he lay in the eye of the storm. And it still hadn’t got a hold of him just yet. At fifty, he was still going. And going. No, all the madness that the waning fame and fortunes of retirement could bring would have to wait for Kelly Slater just a little while longer. And right then, right there, I could only pray that he still sleeps like an angel.

For more of this story and more please visit:

https://www.diangelopublications.com/books/in-deep

THE WANDERLUST ART OF SINA LUXOR

By Isis Flack

Embodying her own effervescent brand of youthful wanderlust, Sina Luxor has made her way into a state of Bali bliss, bringing her vividly drawn folk art along for the ride.

The artist, who has rendered her own life trajectory into a weaving existence that mirrors the desert nomads of her home country of Egypt, molds the lines between the complicated art of surfing and the childish charm and simplicity of a dampened paintbrush.

Serving as both her own form of “meditation and mission”, Luxor honed the stylistic body of work here through a memorable mission to the Mentawai, turbo-charging a wave of imagination, gently directing itself into her own artistic flare.

“I try to take that focus that surfing demands, that ability, and I try to identify the tiniest details that bring the whole act to life in a simple way. Because in art one must suspect that there is more than just what is seen”.

KORONIKI 21x21cm

Acrylic on paper

KK

21x21cm

Acrylic on paper

CELEBRATION

21x21cm

Acrylic on paper

FINDING WOMAN

By Kayli Wouters

Finding the Surf

The ocean was silent. The stars dotted the sky above the Mentawai islands. Anchored just offshore in between two sleeping surf breaks, lightly rocking from side to side, was a sail boat. On board, six friends and strangers sat around a table together, glasses filled from an assortment of whiskey, juice and soda water. It was then that I was first asked the question, “did surfing find you?” Encouraged wholeheartedly by some, and underestimated greatly by others, the experience and process of surfing varies enormously for female surfers in the line up. Surfing is like an addiction - Floating at Racetracks in a male-dominated line up as the waves get hollower, faster and steeper, while the reef inches closer and closer to the surface as the tide sucks out. Each surfer takes the chance, of being thrown over the falls, and are lucky if they miss the sharp coral waiting patiently beneath. Strangely enough, they will all paddle back out for more. It’s an addiction to a feeling. There was no ‘one wave’ that transformed my life. There was no one magical session that solidified surfing as a necessity in my mind. There was instead, scattered bits of satisfaction, adrenaline, euphoria and priceless memories amongst a hazy battle of constant learning, heavy beatings, mind games, and pure moments of fear. It’s these brief moments of bliss amidst a washing machine of mental and physical hold downs, nose dives, reef tattoos and sunburnt eye balls that somehow make surfing worthwhile. It’s an addiction to beauty. Floating and gliding across a playground of the purest crystal blue waters is a vision that surfers are extremely fortunate to be able to witness. Coupled with a backdrop of infinite coconut trees and sandy beaches, surfing in Indonesia especially, is a singular experience of paradise.

Surfing is a lifestyle - Sipping on a kopi Bali, sat on a bamboo bench at Echo Beach, watching the ocean move behind amber tinted sunglasses. Waiting. Waiting with brewing anticipation for the daily surf, at the same home break, with the same people - the one that’s undertaken each day of the week and yet each session manages to create a different story. The wait, the surf, it takes priority of most of my days. It’s a cycle I love and am grateful for. Surfing is a lifestyle chosen. Waiting for the tide to turn, for the crowd to ease, for the swell to hit, for the switch to flip. Surfing is choosing to allow mother nature to dictate how you go about your days. Surfing as a woman, is repeatedly facing the fact that you are the minority in the water, and it’s constantly fighting to change that every time you continue to pursue the sport and the way of life. It is engaging in building and expanding a space for female surfing and female athletes. Surfing is a lifestyle that strengthens the body, and especially the mind. Regardless of skill level and experience, as a woman it takes an internal serenity and determination to face the environment of surfing today, and I am thankful for those who choose to do it, and for those who show their support for the movement. Surfing is a sense of belonging - Scooting down the oneway-used-as-two-way street on Nusa Lembongan, waving and smiling at the local kids who rip Shipwrecks every day, running into surfing friends at the local mini mart, stopping to talk to familiar faces from the line up when strolling down the beach at sunset. It’s a sense of belonging to a community. In and out of the water, surfing has its own unique way of bringing people together. Underneath what can sometimes appear as a competitive and aggressive space, lies beauty, love and a shared passion for the ocean. Female surfing in itself is a refreshing, inspiring and inclusive collective of people who support and advocate for each other. In Indonesia alone it is a pioneering feat which is now endlessly developing. I am always entirely at awe and appreciative of all the women who have worked so hard to create this space of possibilities, opportunities and accessibility for female surfing today. At last, to answer the question; no, surfing did not find me - I found surfing. I found a way of life that I love, and a community I feel connected to, and I continue to work to allow it to be a part of me, a part of others, and a part of those who will come after me.

Each time a woman stands up for herself, she stands up for all women. Photography Liquid Barrel

PETE FRIEDEN’S STUDY OF BRONSON MEIDY

On any Sunday you can find Bronson Meidy dominating at Keramas no matter the size. Here even going left ot maximize his air time in a triptych of impeccable form.

Small wave, big power. The prediction of years ago came true. That as soon as Bronson put some muscle on he was going to light fire to our line-ups line-up. He made it. Photographer Pete Frieden provides the proof positive.

It’s not over ‘til it’s over. Bronson Meidy on inside Keramas, squeezing the last bit of juice, whitewater or no.

A-LIST

THE TOM SERVAIS PORTFOLIO (PART ONE)

John Florence, Kelly Slater, Momi Village Kava Ceremony. Kelly and John were served extra high tide bowls of Kava, a slightly hallucinogenic drink made from pounding Kava root into a powder and mixing with river water. It is served in coconut shells and tastes like drinking something out of a hoof print. The looks on their faces when they saw it coming was priceless. Kava hangovers for sure.

Captions by Tom Servais

John John Florence, Teahupo’o. This contest had the best conditions ever for a World Title contest. The last day was on the verge of being too big to paddle. JJF had that semi-final heat with Kelly where they both tied with near perfect scores. Kelly won. But John stayed so casual even in the most critical parts of a ride. Whether it’s 2 foot Brazil or 30 foot Waimea, as a surfer and a man, John is a surfing treasure.

Tom Dosland, Pe’ahi. This day was good and big, but very tricky because of the strong tradewinds. Tom thought he made a good decision going for this wave, but Mother Nature had other plans for him. The wind grabbed his board and he flew off it and then, still attached to his leash, it pulled him upside down. A horrible situation. He came up a different man, dazed and confused.

Kelly Slater, Cloudbreak. It was the Fiji Pro contest and Kelly had this heat wrapped up. As he was paddling back with minutes left in the heat, a perfect wave approached. Kelly being Kelly, he couldn’t pass it up. A very late takeoff on one of his favorite boards. Kelly snapped his board on this one. But still, such great style even when he’s being pitched.

John Florence, Backdoor Pipe. JJF is the best at Pipeline, like Kelly and Gerry Lopez were. But Gerry only went left, while Kelly and JJF are equally as good going either way. Still, John has a way to go before he equals Gerry’s mystique or Kelly’s eight Pipe trophies.

Gabriel Medina, Kelly Slater. The rivalry is strong, and no one is as aggressive as Gabe. If there’s not a rule against it, he’ll do it. Kelly was behind in this heat but still very dangerous at Backdoor. Holding priority, Gabe saw Kelly take off and immediately dropped in on him. From a spectators viewpoint, it looked pretty hairy, but Kelly just banged rails with Gabe and said fair’s fair. Pro sports? Rules are there to be used.

Kai Lenny, Pe’ahi. It’s in those eyes. The desire. He’s done it all, the new Laird Hamilton and much more. He took what Laird and crew invented and revolutionized it all. Seven World Titles in SUP. Big wave legend, being the first to blow minds by doing aerial 360’s while dropping into XXL size Nazare. One of the world’s top windsurfers and kiteboarders. He’s only 30 years old and you can expect to see him blow our minds for another 30.

For more please visit: tomservais.photoshelter.com

Cloudbreak is one of Kelly’s favorite waves. Generally quiet when he has a great day of surfing, or maybe after one of his 56 CT wins, he becomes very open and talkative. Like a shy person after a couple of drinks. That’s what happened this day.

Varun Tandjung, like an F1 driver, finding more on the Lagundri racetrack than just a barrel.

Photography by Liquid Barrel

COMMITMENT POWER FEAR LOVE

Tommy Sobry, taking his Bingin act to small G-land, throwing his full force into a rare off the lip at a jungle spot known more for seat-of-your-pants survival than high performance hi-jinks.

Photography by Donny Lopez

COMMITMENT POWER FEAR

LOVE

Rodrigo Reinoso traveled a long way from Peru to find himself in a situation beyond words in Tahiti. He survived, but it begs the question what force of life allows any surfer to survive this type of disaster? Could it be beyond luck and more about divine benevolence? Either way, isn’t it remarkable the watery places that surfing allows our bodies and souls to experience.

Photography by Ted Grambeau

COMMITMENT POWER FEAR LOVE

Kian Martin, planning his escape and about to step on the gas amid the thunder of some eastside power.

Photography by Thiago Okasuka

Faulter Rashguard

ULUWATU SURF VILLAS

WHERE SERENITY AND ADRENALINE GO HAND IN HAND

ULUWATU SURF VILLAS

At Uluwatu Surf Villas, visitors can enjoy a range of outdoor activities. The skatepark caters to skaters of all skill levels and was built by our friends at Motion Skate Park Company, ensuring top-notch quality and design.

Located near the ancient Uluwatu Temple, Uluwatu Surf Villas offers a unique experience combining adventure and tranquility. Alongside the skatepark is the enchanting MORNING LIGHT open-air yoga studio, where guests can rejuvenate their mind, body, and spirit amidst breathtaking natural surroundings.

The Uluwatu skatepark features a stunning two-tone concrete bowl with both shallow and deep sections, designed for a smooth ride and endless possibilities. For younger skaters, there are smaller hips and rails, ensuring fun for all ages and experiences.

The skatepark creates a vibrant community atmosphere. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, from 3pm to 7pm, it opens its doors to the public, bringing together local skaters and guests to share good times and create lasting memories. It’s a chance to connect with the local skateboarding scene and experience the true spirit of skateboarding.

For in-house guests, the skatepark is exclusive on other days, open from 8am to 7pm. This provides a more intimate and private experience, allowing guests to fully immerse themselves in the joy of an empty park.

Uluwatu Surf Villas also offers the perfect blend of adventure and cultural exploration. Its proximity to the iconic Uluwatu Temple allows guests to embark on a spiritual journey and witness breathtaking sunsets over the Indian Ocean. The temple’s historical and cultural significance adds a touch of mystique, creating an atmosphere of reverence and wonder.

Uluwatu Surf Villas is a haven for those seeking an unforgettable experience. From the adrenaline-pumping skatepark to the serene MORNING LIGHT yoga studio, this destination captures the essence of Bali. Join us for an extraordinary adventure that combines excitement, relaxation, and cultural exploration.

Sun Corduroy Hat Color Maroon Rp 299.000,-

Sun Ray Wave Longsleeve Tee Color Tan

Radiate Kids Shortsleeve Tee Color Grey Rp 349.000,-

Radiate Kids Shortsleeve Tee Color Grey Rp 349.000,-

Sun Ray Wave Hat Color Brown Rp 299.000,-

Reversible EOS Bottom & Metis Crop Rashie Reverse Rp 699.000,- & Rp 1.099.000,-

Cepa Volley Short Color Olive Rp 799.000,-

STICKY FINGERS AT THE LAWN CANGGU

On April 22nd, 2023, Australian indie band Sticky Fingers lit up the stage with their electrifying and unapologetic music style. Fresh off their soldout European tour, this talented group delivered an unforgettable show. Sticky Fingers’ unique blend of rock, alternative, reggae, and psychedelic music is nothing short of amazing. Led by Dylan Frost’s powerful vocals and guitar playing, this quintet has captured the hearts of fans worldwide. Paddy Cornwall on bass and vocals, Seamus Coyle on lead guitar, Beaker ‘Beaks’ Best on drums and percussion, and Freddy Crabs on keys and

synth complete the line-up of this truly talented group. With three straight Top 5 albums under their belt, ARIAA platinum, gold plaques, and over 1 billion streams, Sticky Fingers is one of Australia’s biggest bands. Their performance in Bali was a night of pure excitement, with their hybrid of music genres that left the crowd buzzing. Check out the highlights from an incredible night in Bali with Sticky Fingers live in concert. Head over to www.thelawncanggu.com for more information and to see future events.

TWINNY FINNY AT THE LAWN CANGGU

The 4th Annual Twinny Finny Surf, Film, and Music festival brought together surf enthusiasts from across the globe. With over 100+ contestants, including renowned names like Rizal Tandjung, Koa Smith, Ryuki Waida, Giada Legati, and more, the event delivered an adrenaline-fueled showcase of thrilling surf competitions, spills, and endless fun. Canggu truly became the ultimate playground for both surfers and music lovers. Over two days the festival featured action-packed surf competition across mens, womens and junior boys and girls, a beachfront film screening and a sunset live performance from Bobby Alu. Hosted by The Lawn Canggu and Times Beach Warung, the event transformed Bali’s Batu Bolong across the weekend. Check out the highlights and the gallery of all the action at https://www. thelawncanggu.com/twinnyfinny2023-gallery

SINGLE FIN ULUWATU

Single Fin started from humble beginnings in 2008 and quickly moved to the top of Bali’s bucket list. Set on the epic cliffs and overlooking the infamous Uluwatu surf break discovered back in the 70’s, the beach bar is the go to for a jump- start breakfast with a perfect brewed coffee, enjoy an icy cold Bintang after an afternoon of long lefts or sip on a cocktail

while the sun sinks in the Indian Ocean.

Our terrace has unparalleled views of the surf, sunsets and comes alive with our music programming on Wednesdays and the infamous Sunday Sessions with regular international DJ’s and live acts. Great music, fantastic food and the laid back ambiance makes Single Fin here to stay.

2024 OLYMPIC SURFING AT TEAHUPO’O: WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

By Sam George

Recent headlines concerned with Kelly Slater’s Olympic aspirations has me thinking about the 2024 Paris Games, and the surfing event to be held at Teahupo’o, Tahiti, where, if everything goes right, it could all go terribly wrong.

The logistics of holding the event 15,706 kilometers away from the main Olympic site in France isn’t the biggest issue here. Because surf contests have been held at Teahupo’o for decades now and both the event organizers and the residents of the tiny Tahitian village have the whole show wired. No worries about crowd control, either, seeing as not only is there no place to park at the End Of The Road, but no place to watch the event except from Teahupo’o’s narrow reef pass, which can only hold so many camera boats, girlfriends on jet skis, plastic kayaks and smoothie barges before it starts looking like Spring Break at Lake Havasu.

Sure, they’ll be none of the pomp and gravity of conventional Olympic competition; no Athlete’s Village, major network interview studios or stadium’s filled with cheering fans. For the majority of competitors, most of them culled directly from the WSL ranks, it’ll be just another contest at Teahupo’o’. Which, of course, brings us to my point.

I’ll assume that the Olympic Organizing Committee has seen plenty of footage of Teahupo’o, and have a grasp of what actually goes on there. If not, I’ll make it easy for them. Big, scary waves. Really big. In Teahupo’o’s case, let’s say 20-foot minimum. Which means deadly big. Forget the nightmare of it being flat (which can happen) or overhead and blown out (which has happened), even if it is eight-to ten-feet it will be a letdown to everyone, network broadcasters included, all of whom are hoping to see Olympic surfing gold being won in Tahitian Code Red.

May your choices reflect your hopes and not your fears. Kai Otten, face to face, making his choice with the Teahupo’o reality. Photography by Tom Servais

And there’s the problem. Because if everything does go right, and sometime during the allotted one-week schedule a really big south swell and good winds actually arrive, the Olympics could be faced with the truly unique spectacle of presenting athletes competing in an event in which they have no experience. Because make no mistake: very few of the world’s surfers are capable of surfing 20 foot Teahupo’o. And none of became so by surfing in ISA qualifying heats.

It could be bad enough for the men’s division. But for the women surfers, a giant swell could be downright catastrophic. Even a precursory look at this year’s professional and amateur rankings will show that with the exception of Tahiti’s Vahine Fierro, not a single female Olympic qualifier has ever surfed a truly big day at Teahupo’o’. I’m not saying that none of the women qualifiers are capable of surfing a big day at Teahupo’o’. I’m just saying that up to now they haven’t.

So imagine a Winter Olympic slalom ski racers being told that, in fact, they’ll be competing in the ski jumping event on the large hill? That’s essentially the exact scenario that many of our Summer Olympic surfers will be facing if everything goes right at Teahupo’o’. For the athletes, the consequence of failure could be grievous injury, but for the Olympic broadcast, it would be seeing a large percentage of the competitors electing, in all good conscience, to not even paddle out. And who could blame them, considering that many of these first timers will be going for gold at a terrifying wave that takes years of experience to wire. A place called Teahupo’o’, whose name translated to English means “the severing of heads”, or, more colloquially, “place of skulls.” For the sake of the O.O.C. and all the over 2 billion viewers who watch the summer Olympics, the question must be raised? Have we thought this through?