Michael Fordham
04-05
Here, now and forever: County Clare John Eldridge
Meán Fómhair ‘time of harvest’
Published by September Project / Michael Fordham ISBN: 978-0-9557392-0-0 Copyright© Michael Fordham 2007 Art direction: A-Side Studio / www.a-sidestudio.co.uk Printed and bound in the UK by APB All rights reserved. The views and opinions expressed in this book are those of the respective authors and not necessarily those of the publishers. Copyright for individual images and text remains with their respective creators. No part of this book may be reproduced in part or whole without written permission from the publisher.
www.howies.co.uk
Wave Come John Eldridge
“
I ’m
extremely interested in finding
a new way to live and I think that surfing could possibly be the answer. I feel that surfers
really
have
a
healthy
attitude.
They’re against the capitalistic style of living, they’re more involved and into the ocean and just the waves; the waves mean everything. I’m seeking out a way to live and if it’s surfing, that’s the way I’ll do it, I’ll be a surfer. For the rest of my life.”
Andy Warhol La Jolla, California May 1968
24 People + 1 Place / 28 Days =
The September Project words
Michael Fordham
frustration I had been feeling bubbled to the surface. I was angry. I was bitter. I was twisted. There was only one way out of this situation. It was tough getting the wetsuit on. If anybody else had been awake they’d be forgiven for laughing at the spectacle of a one-armed man contorted with pain, peeling on a second skin. Eventually I began to pick my way across the rocks and to get excited by the smell of the brine and the feel of the weed and the boulders beneath my toes. I didn’t really know what I was in for or what I was trying to achieve. But when I pulled on my friend’s swim fins and slipped into the water between sets just as the sun peeped out over the shoreline, it all made perfect sense.
08-09
Giacometti’s Muse Thor Johnson
The idea for the September Project was simple. We would rent a house somewhere on the West Coast of Ireland throughout the month of September and we would invite a couple of dozen surfing friends from all around the world who happen to be writers, photographers, artists, filmmakers or musicians. Each of the invitees would write some words or make some images inspired by their time in Ireland, and we would publish a book made up of these contributions. The book would be infused with the essence of the collective experience of its creators – a printed distillation of that time, that place and those people. The yearn for an Irish surf trip had been nurtured in me over the years by sporadic rumour of quiet, cold but epic surf. There had been the occasional story in a surf magazine, and Andrew Kidman’s epoch-making film Litmus was a real inspiration in it’s approach and execution. But it was the anecdotal evidence of empty waves, quietly beautiful landscapes and the lack of licensing laws that excited me about Ireland. Ironically, it happened that when I finally made it over in 1999, I had recently suffered a badly dislocated shoulder. So, unable to surf myself, I was condemned to watch endless lines of swell stack up to the horizon and in my notebook to document the deep cerebrum stoke of my ablebodied brethren. That swell lasted a full three days, and sure enough, there was another one right behind it. I woke up before dawn on the fifth day. It was a deathly silent morning and we were at the far corner of Sligo. It was cold as it can only be in the Irish springtime, but the wind had died and a high pressure system had settled over the land, keeping a storm at bay a thousand miles out to sea. Eight-foot high, sculpturally exact sets of waves were wrapping and bending into the reef, spaced out perfectly and smoking in the dead calm air. But, despite being struck by the breathtaking beauty of it all, the
From beneath the waves I could see their shapes cast in
green to black to soda and back again to green as they expressed the geometry of the reef below me, quickly jacking, bowling and tapering down to my right. Like a wounded seal I was ducking and blowing alone at the surface whilst seeking out the pockets of power. Once or twice I went over the falls with the throwing lips and felt an intense rip of pain, but my half helplessness somehow synched me with the natural rhythm of the surf. I wheeled, swung and yawed in the water, managing every now and then to plane along the green faces of the waves, and I could feel the tension falling away, to be replaced with the boundless euphoria surfers call stoke. By the time the cohort began to paddle out to join me after an hour or so, I was a holy goof, a half-crippled, giggling fool. This strange, lonely session hammered home the message in me that surfing really has nothing to do with which board you ride, or even how you ride it. It taught me that you need nothing but engagement with the elements to know the true meaning of surfing. It was a lesson I vowed always to remember, and it’s this spirit that the September Project hopes to evoke.
10-11
Peter James Field is an artist of subtle sensibility. Quietly observing the ebb and flow of things, he picked out aspects we might have otherwise ignored.
14-15
John Isaac, tweedy neo-connoisseur of all things classic and purveyor of fine surfboards created Newquay’s legendary, sadly passed, Revolver surf shop. Hooking up with fluoro-clad god of the lip smack Alan Stokes that September, he produced these delectable saturations.
35mm Transparency
Up close and personal with Alan Stokes.
35mm Transparency
Liquid Perspective 01
35mm Transparency
Liquid Perspective 02
35mm Transparency
Fluorescent Gouge
Vehicular Discrimination
A Surfer’s Curse words Kieron Black
18-19
I am an Irishman, born in Belfast and raised on the east coast. During my youth we lived some time north of the border, and some time south of it. We had to travel for my father’s work and my early exposure to all parts of the island of Ireland enabled me to see it as just that – an island. Politics had little effect on me. I was a middle class kid and more into bicycles, and for most of the time I was as happy as a pig in shite. I would like to say my school years passed without incident, but all I can say right now is that they passed. I was never into ‘team’ sports during my education. Gaelic, rugby, hurling, football; sports seemingly all based on goals, balls, crowds, and shouting didn’t interest me. It was all about the points, and to be honest, I just couldn’t see the point. Those who were into the whole ‘teams and shouting’ thing were not impressed by my non-participatory attitude. Some saw me only as this stand-offish kooky kid, a bit of a loner lacking necessary social and coordination skills. Others weren’t quite so forgiving. I was attending a Protestant school. I was a ‘weirdo’ who didn’t play their games. It was well known I had lived some time south of the border, and so it was assumed I must be a Catholic weirdo. And so I was bullied for most of my secondary education. I don’t know if sectarian bullying is worse than any other kind of bullying, but it seemed bad enough to me. The empathy I feel for anyone who has suffered at the hands of bullies is enormous. Children are capable of enormous cruelty and do not get bored easily. Small tortures applied daily soon mount up. Things escalate. The fact that I was not actually Catholic was irrelevant, once kids have made their mind up not to like you, and are having fun doing it, little things like the truth are of little consequence. It was about this time I learned the value of solitude. No people meant no bullies and that meant no pain. And on an island the best place to get away from everyone is the water. The
ocean became my solace, my release. She was silent and she was free. The ocean accepted me for what I was and I loved her for it. I was just was another piece of protein in her food chain. Gradually my ocean experience evolved from being just the absence of bullies into a whole new phase of existence, I soon became addicted to this new world. And like any dependence mine began gradually. First came the soft, ‘starter’ highs provided by small sailing boats. A canvas-skinned collapsible boat was my entry level vehicle, then a Mirror dinghy. My habit grew. A Lazer was next, a very fast, high performance boat. I learned the skills to take me further from the coast, away from the troubles of dry land. Deeper water, stronger winds, bigger waves. My father bought me a windsurfer, a log of a thing, but I loved it. Then came art school in Cornwall and I had no more cash to burn on expensive windsurfing kit. I made the move to surfing. Shortboards for ten years, followed by the beautiful, smooth hit of the longboard. I finished college, moved back to Ireland and began earning. My habit began to grow again. I rediscovered the highs of the windsurfer. And shortboards. And fishes. Longboards. Kayaks. Masks and snorkels. Now my front room is a treasure cave of ocean equipment, a sofa and a laptop squeezed in between curved and sculpted things covered in salt and wax and the odd footstrap. These varied tools allow me to find a huge amount of stoke in nearly all conditions. A good thing too, as the east of Ireland, where I now live, provides many days of huge onshore or crossonshore winds, with large, short-period uber-hectic swell. These are horrible conditions for a shortboarder, tolerable for someone on a Surftech with a bit of length, and heaven for a windsurfer or kiteboarder. And there’s no problem with numbers (yet!), I can think of ten breaks within ten miles of here and only five local surfers to share them with. And while the east is a fickle treasure, the north coast is a haven of fast breaking bona fide beach breaks, jaw-dropping scenery and a local crew to be proud of. And the west of Ireland, as any travelling surfer knows, is an adventure playground with as much grunt as you can handle, and more. To put it in simple surfer metaphor; Ireland rocks, dude. And the more vehicles you know how to ride, the louder it plays. But there is a spectre lurking in paradise. The bigotry and intolerance I suffered at school exists in many different forms throughout the island. I called myself an Irishman in the first paragraph because I live, work, and surf on the geographical island of Ireland. But because I live in Northern Ireland a lot of people would say I was a British citizen. They would be passionate about it, violent even. To call myself an ‘Irishman’ in Northern Ireland can be a dangerous, foolhardy statement, even though my basis for doing so is not political. To me, the word ‘Northern’
is a prefix, a geographical reference, something that lets other surfers know where the bit of land is that I pay a mortgage on. But the word ‘Irishman’ identifies me to many as a supporter of the armed struggle for freedom, even though most of those arms have now been laid down. Put together, the words ‘Northern’ and ‘Irishman’ are a red rag to some, even though they are the most accurate description of who I am. It’s nearly four hundred years since King James I had his ‘plantation’ brainwave. The idea was simple, Elizabeth I’s armies had battered Ireland almost into submission, and most of the Irish leaders had fled for their lives. English and Scottish people were then moved into the northeast corner of the island, ‘planted’ there to make the rule of the country easier. But while it must have looked like a good idea on paper, it didn’t play out so well when put into practice. So now we have a nation split through the very soul. One of the greatest ironies of Ireland is that the huge welcome we can provide to visitors is matched only by the size of the hatred some feel for those who already live here. It would be funny if it weren’t for all the dead people. Yet this bigotry, so deeply rooted in the psyche of some of the Irish people, seems to become completely soluble in salt water. In all my time floating in the sea around Ireland I have never met a bigoted surfer, nor have I ever heard of one in any surfing crew. True, there is a gentle rivalry between us wild barbarians from the frozen north and the gentler folk living south of the border, but that’s as far as it goes. The Intercounties Surfing Competition in Donegal each year is a festival of good will and solidarity. It would seem the bond of the ocean transcends all religious discrimination and all surfers are able to live together in harmony, regardless of their beliefs. Yes. How idyllic. Dig (dive) a little deeper and you will find a different discrimination exists in the surfing world, a discrimination based not upon the beliefs or origin of another surfer, but on the vehicle underneath him. Watch the reaction of a group of shortboarders when someone dares paddle past on something measuring nine foot plus, or the facial expressions of those depending on gravity when a sail or a kite appears on the horizon. Groans and mocking laughter at best, outright hostility at worst. You may not see it everywhere, most surfers enjoy their sport with an open mind and happily share the ocean with everyone, but it does exist in the heads of some. And while this ‘vehicular discrimination’ or ‘VD’ may be a very distant cousin of religious bigotry, it is still a relation and we should know better than to let it in the door. It seems to be a mainly European malady. Elsewhere on the planet true watermen and women ride a range of vehicles without prejudice, guided in what they ride only by the current
conditions. True watermen like Laird Hamilton and Rush Randle are as much at home strapped to a tow-in board as they are pulling on a sail or hanging from a kite. In Australia and Hawaii when the wind shifts and blows out the morning glass many surfers just paddle in, rig up a sail and head straight back out again. Not so with the Europeans. How many crews of die-hard shortboarders have you seen hunched miserably over coffee in small town cafes while the wind howls cross-onshore outside? Longboards ride mushy waves. Windsurfers love cross-onshores. Kites fly in anything. But prejudice still keeps some people in the cafe. I just hope the coffee is damn good.
There is a small village on the east coast of Northern Ireland
where a long, elegant harbour wall shelters a quiet bay from a predominantly onshore wind. Wild geese wheel over small fishing boats while waves pound at the reefs sitting just outside the wall. It is stunningly beautiful, the views captured perfectly on the racks of postcards that parenthesise the village shop doorway. Yet no tourist lingers here long enough to buy them. This same small village comes with a huge reputation, infamous throughout the county. It is home to a large population of politically active people. Some of these people are positively seeking a solution to Ireland’s problems through the democratic process. And some aren’t. I moved here for the waves and because of its reputation it is one of the last places left in Ireland where you can still get a sea front property without selling an organ. For a longboarder and a windsurfer it was a smart move. For a peace-loving artist it was a test and a half. Happily the percentage of wetsuit ownership amongst the local population has increased since my arrival, but the long-term gratification found in surfing just isn’t enough to pull these kids into the water on a regular basis. I work with the various youth groups on creative projects, and I have tried hard to expose them to the massive watery resource just a rubber suit away. Some were curious enough to get themselves in there, but so far their water time has just been something to fill the gaps in between cigarettes and alco-pops. Surfing is just too hard; getting pissed is a lot easier. For the majority of these kids, harbour walls are where you go to find the rest of the underage drinkers, not to check the surf. This contrasts hugely with the west coast, where youth culture revolves around the ocean. Vandalism, vomiting and violence just aren’t found there (well, maybe the vomiting in Bundoran) as the examples set by their peer groups are so very different from those here on the east. Over here it is the
20-21
paramilitaries and not the pointbreaks that hold sway over the minds of the impressionable. With the huge unemployment and massive boredom of rainy rural life, many become involved with the armed struggle for a sense of worth, of belonging to a crowd. The fact that for a lot of the time ‘paramilitary activity’ is synonymous with ‘organised crime’ only adds to the problem, as it can be an easy way to make a fast buck. For an east coast kid bored and broke and freezing this violent alternative lifestyle is just way too irresistible. It’s hard to see how the slow-burn return of the wet life can compete. But there is hope. In the last eighteen months I have seen the surfing population increase by four hundred percent at my local break. On the west this would be bad news, but we need it here on the east. And it’s not like we don’t have the room. A year ago it was me and the seals. Now we have kiteboarders, windsurfers, sand-yachters, dirt-boarders, vehicles of every kind, only minutes from this forgotten village. Who knows where this will lead? If enough surfers ride enough waves on enough vehicles and enough people see them doing it, will some kind of critical mass be reached? Will those who need it the most will look to the ocean, see us in it and say “hey, can I have a go at that?” Maybe, but it won’t happen if we’re all beachridden with a bad case of V.D. But fortunately, if you do find yourself high and dry with a dose of the vehicular discriminations, the cure is a simple three-step exercise. 1. Dump your own prejudices, you don’t need them. 2. Ride as many different vehicles as you can. 3. Be tolerant of what others are riding. Follow these simple instructions and in no time at all your condition will clear, you’ll be totally stoked and with any luck a huge inspiration to others. And you’ll be surprised who else is doing their own version of the three-step system. Who would have thought we would ever see Messrs McGuinness and Paisley sitting smiling at the same table? If they can overcome their lifetime prejudices to take the country forward, can’t we all float in the same ocean together? Because even with her many problems, Ireland remains an island of magic. I have surfed here with travellers of every nationality, and the one consistency in all the varying accents, colours and styles is the total stoke our waters provide. Every wave across the planet offers something new and original to the travelling surfer, but there is something magical about this land and this ocean, something ethereal, elusive, felt more by the soul than the senses. Surfing here is a gift, a privilege. Inspiring others to share it can only benefit us all.
Emerald Wall Mickey Smith
22-23
Los Angeles based artist Sandow Birk rocks up to the beach in a sharp grey suit and skinny black tie. He calmly, silently contemplates the lineup before paddling out and surfing with style. Here, Sandow casts a rare glance at the textures of an Irish reef. No peddlar of cheap dudisms, this fella.
24-25
Between
Fish & Bird by
Sam Bleakley
I
If Ireland were part of God’s body
It would be the sod-bearing black belly In which the rain hissed; in which the moon rose; Around which a humpbacked storm broadcasts waves Whose force could break a man’s spirit in two, Or wing him on a green and greasy face.
II
We take wings from history -
Bonzers, twins, spoons, - slipping between worlds. Wings strapped to the back of our timeless wheels -
‘The Albatross’ – searching for tough landings Where the skirt of Clare cliffs slips under foam heads And the water seeps up the cloth of the land, Where it spreads, to bog the unwary. Testy rain stitches into the skin. There it rests, so that you must become seabird And gain black-beaded, weather-savvy eyes To spy where the wind nests, north at Donegal Slipping into moss green, rolling peaks.
Sam Bleakley Thor Jonsson
III
Wind cuts through the lime grass at Mullaghmore,
The heavy air bounces back the rising bass Of the sea’s motion, and I improvise Across the bass runs with in-synch tri-fins, Raking the snare-wires of the waves held taught By a stiff offshore. I drum big patterns. 26-27
Then, a sudden foam-haired barrel stands up And I solo with it by fingertips At which point the music stirs and pancakes To dread silence, and I am bird-fish, Tar black shag suspended between worlds.
‘Enough of heroes!’ g r e y w a t e phantoms Occupy their stations and descend, Clipping wings and snapping back to real time.
– r
IV
The new northwest wind spins a cloak of yeasty rain
That spits the windscreen clear back to Clare.
I n t o x i c a t e d , still drunk on sliding Even as we are blasted raw by the stiff Onshores, we win the barley spirit’s favour: A switch of breeze, turning sappy waves Into combed lines, the ceaseless rain pinging Off the water, and we are again Fish-birds rising on the island’s skin, Our spirits intact, memories stained
deep green.
200k
Albatross Tripping
Part One words Daniel Crockett
During the holy month of September my twenty year-old Mercedes
– otherwise known as the Albatross – journeyed through 2,588 miles.
28-29
John Eldridge comes from a school of wave-riding that’s all about ripping on an eclectic array of craft – and his creative work reflects the breadth of this vision. From Polaroid Transfer to After Effects, the Cornwall based dynamo does it all. And he charges, too.
199138 30-31
- Tyre tracks and tired eyes We strain in fourth, taxing every last piece of horsepower from an engine abused. The temperature gauge shows 115 degrees. On the roof the pile of twelve boards sways, lashed in a pyramid that defies physics. Fish ride atop guns above logs. Within the car itself five men sweat, and a pile of photographic and personal luggage weighs on the weary shocks. Johnny Flashbulb transfers a coffee and muffin, all £6.30 of it. We hit Wales, and pay the border tax with uncertainty. ‘Gwasanaethau’ and ‘Araf’ the signs say. We streak into the night at sixty. Jim and Flashbulb make a nocturnal journey around the ferry to capture sleeping passengers on medium format and Polaroid. Red-eyed, the rest stumble to sleep. It seems only seconds before reveille, and the journey begins afresh. There is little time to yawn, a new joy arrives - Irish soil once more. Names flash past; Oola, Bohereen, Inagh, Ennistimon. And to our destination, Lahinch. On inside left, crumbling two footers burble down the point. Isaac reveals we missed it; “Shoulda been here yesterday, mate!” ‘We should bail’, comes the collective thought. We head up the N17, northbound.
Doolin Castle by Dane Peterson
199600 - Castle reef dreaming The castle reefs are breaking, shapely and pony-high, as the sun fades into the west. The crew of the Albatross split to lessen our impact. Thankfully, despite the host in the field, there are few people in the water. Sam surfs his fish with power, the volume of the board perfect for the small waves. Watching a longboarder of this calibre adjust to a shortboard is interesting - he doesn’t skip a beat, and lays down tight lines with a unique rhythm. The dust washes away in the little spinners.
199780 32-33
- On the case First light reveals a radical south-southwesterly wind whistling up main street, Enniscrone. Thor Jonsson - man of perpetual stoke and cigarette lighters - is up pre-dawn. Thor was raised on a farm outside of Stockholm. An unlikely origin for a unique water photographer, but it informs much of his mould-broken character. We get on the case. Empty at a silent reef, a set bowls as we arrive. The boys leapfrog into suits, and Thor is first out, swimming into the tapering lefts, only the yellow of his housing distinguishing him from the average seal. The wave is good. It has a thicker first section followed by a long wall down the point. Infrequent wide ones smoke through. The surfers overdrive on their first chance to cut loose. Sam surfs from deep, flying on a long thruster. Jimy is a grommet, hugging the inside and fading into the sneakers, using his goofy tendencies to speed through some long sections. He rides his Dain Thomas fish smooth and fast, with style that is all his own. Johnny seeks the heavier ones, throwing himself into anything and everything that comes through. A true dynamo. Few waves go unridden. Thor bobs in the rising sun, stoked on the light and the vibe. I cannot tell what his eye sees in the lens, but the incomprehensible intrigues. After the boys charge a big left for lunch, we head further North. The third setup is wilder still, nestled at the end of a long bay. It breaks warping down the point before shutting down with a dry end section.
199900 McDermott’s, Doolin Red-eyed and weary, we hit the pub around midnight. We are road-feral and stoked with discovery. The racing tempo of a traditional band piques our excitement. We tuck into Guini (potent as poitin), tapping our feet to the reel that swirls through the bar, and understanding why this area is becoming a major tourist destination; a mecca for the Irish music scene. Amongst the tourists, local people sit, distinguishable from the transients. I pick out the Albatross crew, scattered throughout the bar. Each one has a wind burned face, a huge grin and a mind awash with stoke.
34-35
36-37
Spencer Murphy’s lens evoked something unseen that September. Shooting only at dawn and dusk, God only knows what he did for the rest of the day.
Medium format
Easky: bubbling, hissing and boiling. Spencer Murphy
38-39
Medium format
Lahinch Sleeps
Medium format
Glaucic Evening
Medium format
Mystic Reef
40-41 Medium format
State of Slate
Medium format
Promise of the Tide Medium format
Waiting Again
42-43
Medium format
Gaelic Goalposts
Medium format
Emergency
How You
Surf
words Michael Fordham
44-45
“How you surf, so you live.” So said a wise man. But can you really read the soul of a surfer by the way they ride a wave? What happens when that soul interacts with a lump of sculpted foam and fibreglass? Can there really be a free association of the spirit tapped in tight to the groove – independent of the imaginations of the builder of the boards a surfer rides? How about if that rider has a hand in creating those boards – is that not the ultimate synch of spirit and surf intent? Indulge us while we delve into some impressions of three very different yet intertwined humans that surfed with us in September. Tyler Hatzikian brought with him to Ireland his self shaped, meticulously hand made ‘craftsman noserider’. The board was shaped in his revered bay in El Segundo, California, from a Clark classic weight foam blank. That was the densest gauge available from the now defunct factory. For strength and a traditional look, it has three wooden stringers and a concave in the nose as well as classic 50/50 rails. The traditional resin tint colour scheme is homage to legendary American Indy car racer AJ Foyt’s 1950 sprint car. To see the well-built, six-foot plus Californian jive from his cat-like tip attack way back in the barrel to a fully drop-kneed cutback is to be awed by his simultaneous grace and dynamism. When walking the board, it appears that he is the point of stillness and his vehicle simply fed through beneath his crossed steps. His knee paddle-to-late-takeoff manoeuvre has to be seen to be believed. The full three metres of his hot rod-styled noserider cut a swathe across the Irish face like a stripped down coupe at Bonneville. Witness Stokesy meanwhile, Cornubian towhead and bearer of the competitive flame in British surfing this side of the millennium. His lip smacking, hard turning power squat made short shrift of the Clare walls, a delightful counter position to Tyler’s Phil Edwards-like flow. Known to favour
beak nosed single fins and mutant discs and spoons wrought in the tortured imagination of John Isaac, as well as the super light epoxy thrusters that hone his point-scoring edge, you’ll normally witness the man as a blur of colour and tightly hewn brawn. Check the tuck and the pump in and out of the barrel. Note the trailing, flailing hands that turn his form with centripetal force, like a skater in a beyond-vert bowl. Dane Peterson, meanwhile, is usually recognised for his future-classic log riding at places like Malibu, San Onofre, and spots in his adopted home-from-home in Noosa. He surprised us in Ireland by styling on his fish, a twin-keeled creature mown from the very Skil 100 power planer of Skip Frye himself. The pocket larrikin and Cali-Queensland transplant larking here on the antipodes of both his chosen seas was all smooth transitions and flow, and was seen more than once doing what this style of board was originally designed for: knee riding deep in the pocket, teasing the titchy length and fatness of the fish into a deeper and deeper exploration of lines and angles. This trinity join the dots of the surf diaspora. They came together and rode waves with us in Ireland in a way that reflects who they are, rather than pandering to the prevailing market forces. Respect is due.
Mono Print & Collage by Nick Radford
Alan Stokes Tyler Hatzikian Dane Peterson
This Far or Further Stillness and Movement in Tom’s Bar,
Lahinch words Jimy Newitt
46-47
Tom Tara Darby
Three raps on the door, and for a moment we await signs of life. Squinting through grubby glass, a limp and yellowed lace hides the inside from out. A faded placard in the window reads plain, ‘Guinness served here’. Nothing happens. Then a dull thud and the slow tread of footsteps upon a deadwood floor. The wind bites a small mob gathered outside with feet that rustle impatiently with thirst. A key rattles and twists awkward before finally the door swings to reveal a small hunched man wearing no expression. He is dressed in a brown two-piece tweed suit over an off-white button up, no tie. Clean-shaven with a thin white flyaway crop, one eye appears closed while the other stares true blue. He spreads a grin and welcomes the eager crowd. Local heavies exchange pleasantries while respectful newbies gesture a low-key nod and fall in. There are no lights inside, only that which spills in through the window and open door. The air is old and doesn’t move. A long and narrow room appears narrowed further by a large dark wood bar, which splits the room and stretches its length. At the furthest end sits a single gold tap of Guinness. On the back wall, shelves reach to the ceiling and keep a peculiar range of goods, from oversize bottles of lemonade, to bags of sea salt and ten-packs of disposable razors. Everything appears grungy, dusted with a thousand years. The old man shuffles silent to assume his position behind the bar. Before he begins serving, he positions an upturned bottle crate and steps up to reach a prehistoric television, set precariously atop a loosely fixed fitting. He sifts through several fuzzy channels before settling on the Sunday game and steps down. He then signals a heavy-set fellow to pitch, sets about a glass and begins to pour a pint at a time. In the eternity that follows I discover the barman’s name is Tom, he is 91 years old and has been tipping pints at this very counter for 76 years.
A local hero of sorts, Tom is revered for a steadfast devotion to
his trade. Working hours have lately become loose and Tom will now likely only interrupt his afternoon snooze to serve should the queue outside his door become too long to ignore. Finally Tom’s eye catches my own and I put in for a nip. He slides me a tall black glass and whispers “tree fifty”. I hand out my change and take a moment to let my thoughts, and poison, settle.
Bungalow Tara Darby
We ride the sea - this way My legs are asleep. The constant thrum of a rainslicked road and squeaky wipers has all in a fitful doze. Like the wind we have run this coast today, toothless to a die-hard southwesterly. Sodden clouds verge shoreward over a near spoiled sea, save this nook we have rumbled. By happenstance we glimpse the break line of surf between two green hills. Fresh hope sees us revived and alert. We are quick to move on it, eager to shake the road dust. 48-49
A matchbox housing estate appears misplaced and stark
against the wild coast, but offers our best viewpoint. This westward coastline is littered with these slapdash developments, ugly and awkward fixtures that come with progress. We roll to a stop; a spotter is quickly elected and makes for a gap between two houses the same. A long finger of land points to the horizon and angles slightly at the tip. A shaky swell swings left off its end and rolls in uneven to gather form. In the distance a lone headless shredder has thrown in the towel and is headed toward shore. His presence confirms our find.
Jimy Newitt, Easky Left Thor Jonsson
To get to the lineup one must first negotiate a quarter mile of ankle popping boulders and loose shingle, sure to slow even the most eager of surfers in a precarious rock hop. Together with a relentless gale and airplane wing under arm, there appears no easy access. Still we resolve this would likely seem our best chance at a go-out and settle to take a stab at it with short sticks. In an instant an oversize rig is quickly dismantled, we suit up, strings are attached and rock hard wax is hurriedly passed around. Barefoot we tramp a well kept lawn that divides the ordinariness from the wilderness.
The ocean speaks and spits as we step out and onto the waiting reef. An occasional sudden gust sees us hunkered down clinging to our surfboards for fear they might be torn from our grasp, a desperate and hilarious predicament. A tall black sky flecked with white gulls is too stubborn to break and hangs heavy above us. Rain threatens. One by one we launch into the surf and make for the outside. And here is us, a shot of the future into this backwards landscape. The horizon lifts as waves pitch in turn and curl down the point. Rapt in our flutter a few primal hoots go up and carry in the gale. Sets reach up to our necks and tip over a haphazard seabed with reasonable shape and consequence. A low in the tide sees the swells increase in size and thicken to throw a punch. Boils appear mid-face together with a white-knuckle dry spot to test our nerve. The offshore is a howler and won’t give up. Clouds of stinging salt spray hang in the air with each broken swell and force wide eyes to a squint. Bloodshot and hell bent we ride it out. Everything appears moving beneath us, everything in flux, out of control yet strangely sync. And we too. All is wild and we are a kind of dynamic poetry. Out here we can be balance and form, fast and free, and for a moment become part of this movement.
Between trapezes
The earth’s unchangableness
I am on the lip of a significant change in my life. A collision of circumstance will see me steer away from home in the coming weeks, veer off and into a future. It is a journey at once whimsical and fated, the end-point of which is impossible to foresee. My guts are twisted with angst at the prospect but in them I trust. And so, indifferent with the buzz of alcohol, I will swallow my discomforts with this thick ale and for a moment enjoy the stillness.
I swill the creamy dregs of my drink and watch Tom put shine to a glass. He is almost statuesque but for a turn of his frail wrist. One eye closed, one eye open, half asleep, half awake. Something in my dizzied self longs to be still like him. Something in this sameness offers comfort to me. No pains, no troubles. I wonder whether all of us at this bar are here for such reason. This room like a rock in a river. Is Tom stupid or wise to never change? Or perhaps he can be both at once?
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September A day comes and suddenly the air bites and breathes clear, the staleness of summer just gone. Right on the beat a distinct September sun rides through. It no longer beats down on your head as much as gently warms your back. Perhaps during no other month do we get such brilliant colour effects – and then we enjoy the slow fade to winter. I can’t decide whether it is an end or beginning, or maybe just the space in between but when it comes least ways it brings assurance of change and reminds us time is moving. It’s a truth we forget all too easily.
Jimy Newitt Thor Johnson Locals Thor Johnson
I remember reading that in his later years Pablo Picasso was
not allowed to roam an art gallery unattended, for he had previously been discovered in the act of trying to improve upon one of his old masterpieces. One must assume it wasn’t the painting that needed improving, rather the man himself had changed and so his eye. And while not all change assures a progress, progress is not without a change. Change equals challenge, the challenge of the new, the unknown and unfamiliar. To recoil from such a challenge is to deny change happening, to deny growth. In doing so we become boneless, soft and fearful, forever looking backwards. Yet such is the tenor of this life, things are the way they are and so things will not stay the way they are. Change is inescapable. I wonder what change Tom knows in the faces that float through his bar. Perhaps he knows none real and in this stability he finds his place, his peace. I stare straight through the wall unblinking, my thoughts as big as the sea. Time has past unnoticed. It’s getting late. I straighten my senses and while a part of me would like to stay forever, I’ll not order another. I finish my cup, put my feet on the floor and push my stool in. Tipping my hat to Tom I thank him for the drink and walk out the door heading for somewhere else.
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If anyone deserved the moniker of the Norse god, then it is Thor Jonsson. When you meet him, the beautiful photographic abstractions he produces make perfect sense. He is at home in waters from Madagascar to Mayo, though he carries the essence of Sweden’s frigid latitudes with him wherever he chooses to surf and to shoot.
Polaroid Transfer
Daniel Crockett
Polaroid Transfer
Sam Bleakley
Polaroid Transfer
Michael Fordham
Polaroid Transfer
Unidentified
Polaroid Transfer
Sam Bleakley
Polaroid Transfer
Jimy Newitt
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Polaroid Transfer
Nick Radford
Polaroid Transfer
John Eldridge
Spillings from the
Northwest words & pictures
Jamie Brisick
There was as much pub crawling as there was wave checking, as much history delving and culture mining as there were cutbacks and tube rides. In October 2005, I hung out in County Donegal and County Sligo with artist Sandow Birk, writer Marcus Sanders, collector Greg Escalante, and carver Mike Chipko. We were on no mission to speak of, other than the desire to catch a few waves, 60-61
meet good people, and follow our bliss. The following are sketches from the trip: Easky Left carpark on a blustery wet Thursday afternoon. A rainbow arcs over the top of the landmark ruin, a 15th century tower-like castle that reminds us the roots in this part of Ireland go a lot deeper than what much of the local architecture suggests. According to the guidebook, there was a time when locals were walking away with bricks from the ruins, which they’d use to build outhouses. History and excrement as kindred spirits. They eventually put a stop to this. Once upon a time a beautiful 20th century girl was in Antalya, Turkey visiting ruins that go back to the Ottoman Empire, circa 1400. Deluded by materialism, she grabbed a loose stone from this sacred site and took it back to her hotel room, with every intention of bringing it back to her native California. That night she laid the stone out on her bedside table and in the lamplight, from a certain angle, the face of an old, bearded ancient Greek appeared. (I know this ‘cause I was there). It was like seeing the shapes of countries in the clouds or more historically, the shape of Christ’s face imprinted on Veronica’s Veil. At any rate, the first thing she did the following morning was put the stone right back where she’d found it (she’d seen that Brady Bunch episode where they go to Hawaii
and Bobby finds the tiki and the entire family’s stricken with bad luck…). Carpark camaraderie is at a minimum today, not because our fellow surfers aren’t friendly, but mainly because the weather makes the shelter of the car a lot more comfortable than standing in the cold. This ain’t no beach blanket bingo. This is the North Atlantic where it’s swells aplenty and waves galore, provided you can handle the wind, rain and cold. This is an acquired taste, and it’s proven by the fact that the waves are six feet on the face and there are only four guys out in the water, and at least 12 sitting in their cars, watching, contemplating, in no particular hurry to get out there. Old Paddys with canes and hats and gin blossom faces stand in front of pubs, forced out to the street by new smoking laws…flocks of sheep with turquoise markings like the defeated team in a game of paintball…sequential graffiti that starts by the river and states that a certain girl does certain things with her mouth and ends with the same girl/same handwriting on the other side of town, this time doing certain things with her cunt (small town legends)…one person to unstrap the boards from the rooftop and two others to hold them down ‘cause the wind is gusting so fiercely it’ll turn them into twirling kites…greasy takeaway under fluorescent lighting after surfing till dark ‘cause the pubs have stopped serving meals…the Surf Chixxx covering “Walk This Way” by Aerosmith at the Surfer’s Ball as an entire town jigs and reels drunkenly in their unique interpretations of “surf formal” as a dress code…bobbing up and down in big windswept seas and summoning the distress of leathery ship captains with pipes clenched tight between teeth, potential tragedy or triumph and the sound of sea water hammering against glass…the musty, boozy smell of old pubs that makes perfect sense at 11pm but is wretched at 11am when all you want is a cup of coffee…violins and fiddles and guitars in circles and the drunken vocalist who randomly decides to take on “Dirty Old Town,” sheets of Guinness spilling over the crest of his glass as he hits the chorus…bangers and mash as a kind of mother’s milk requiring knife and fork…pubs that have been passed through the family for four generations and the proprietors who never stop to question their station in life…going for the shoulder and then a big roundhouse as opposed to drawing a bottom turn and cracking the lip at a spot where William Butler Yeats supposedly sat and composed verse (and drawing a parallel between the surfer’s and poet’s choices, both of which are made up of lines)… It was the kind of dream that often ends in soiled sheets and always ends with us wishing the world could cater more to our perversions, that things could possibly be a tad looser,
35mm b/w Transparency
Guinness-wrought contemplation Mineral-rich paddle
35mm b/w Transparency
Ignore all warnings Irish jigs
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35mm b/w Transparency
Licensed to ill
more hedonistic. I was laid out amongst a group of six or seven people; think a litter of kittens. A couple of limbs away was a sexy French girl with natty black hair and pouty lips and she was wearing a loose fitting baby doll dress and I could see up into her crotch an unshaven pussy with a glistening clitoris which, to my surprise, she began flicking with her finger. One thing led to another. The person next to her followed suit, and then the next person, and then the next person, and then me. We all came together, it was group effort. And then I found myself awake (dry sheets), disappointed these things don’t happen in real life (at least to me) but grateful for the thoughts that came next: What might be responsible for this dream? How did it get here? The previous night I’d dreamt of a car accident but that was after reading an article in the Irish Times about the high rate of car accidents around Donegal so its origins were traceable. Was there an orgy in this holiday house we’re staying in? There’s that great Tom Waits line that goes something to the effect of “All the rooms smell like diesel and you take on the dreams of the ones who have slept here.” There’s the horror film where the guy wakes up every morning at 3:14am and later finds out this was exactly the time the guy hacked his entire family. There’s the woman married to the perpetually farting husband who dreams of being trapped inside a Dutch oven. There’s the notion that these things are at work much more than we think. Surfing in cold grey seas along a shoreline where battles were fought permeates body and mind differently than, say, riding waves next to a carnival pier with carousels and ferris wheels the sounds of children laughing. The former is a more ponderous, contemplative experience. The novelist who lives next to a 7-11 writes bubble gum fiction whereas the one who lives next to a 17th century cathedral writes about life and death.
Because I believe great art transcends time and because clothing dates a photo and because nudity is primal and the Slieve League cliffs have a certain primal quality to them, I asked Chipko, my dear mate from Los Angeles, to snap a shot of me naked in a yoga position, 2000 feet above the sea. But I was an idiot, I wanted to create as dramatic a composition as possible, so rather than stand in the grass which is the safe approach, I chose a rock that was loosely embedded in the earth. At the crest of my sun salutation, the rock tipped, nearly spilling me forward. I thought about the consequences had I fallen, and the final shot. Chipko to my mother and father: “This is not going to be pleasant, but I do feel it’s my duty to turn over what’s the final image of Jamie before tumbling to his death.” Chipko passes the photo to mom and dad. Wiping their tears away, they feast their eyes on a shot that belongs more in some sick S&M shop—catalogued alongside the animal fuckers and asphyxiation ejaculators—than at a funeral wake. My bare, white, stumbling ass, my arms windmilling desperately, my fingers clawing for something but connecting with nothing. And the long, green, 2000-foot drop that awaits me… To make matters worse, I’ve got my pants bunched up around my ankles, suggesting something more urgent than just nudity on the mountaintop. “I…I don’t understand,” says my father, a puzzled, disturbed look on his face. “He was going for the yoga shot,” explains Chipko, “but because it was cold out he kind of faked it, didn’t actually take his clothes off, asked me to crop the frame from the knees up. And when he fell, the pants bound his feet together, which made it hard for him to stop himself…” “So what you’re saying is, if his pants were on he could’ve used a leg to stop himself.” “Or off…if they were 100% off he could’ve dug a foot into the hillside.” My mother and father are befuddled. Why would he take his clothes off? What was he trying to achieve? How could this tragedy have such a perverse twist to it? “What really happened?” asks my father. “And spare us the bullshit.” “I’m telling you…. He wanted to do this stupid yoga picture. He dropped his pants to be like Jim Morrison. The rock tipped, he fell, his pants were around his ankles and he began picking up speed… He rolled like a barrel, bounced over this one rock, and after that I couldn’t see him… Do you want to hear the rest? Like what his body looked like after the rescue squad got to him?” A defeated look on both my parent’s faces. “No,” whispers my father, his eyes cast downward. “No, that’s enough.”
I want to tell you I scored the best surf of my life, had my stoke rekindled to 12-year-old grom proportions, hooked a seven second barrel at a little known reef where only the cows were there to cheer me on. Truth of the matter is we caught bloody decent waves and danced with the wind and shimmied with the rain and got in the water every day of the trip. But what transcended it all were the people, the scenery, the Shepherd’s pies, the pub vibe, the fact that everyone we ever tried to engage in conversation with was 100% receptive and open (and this was a three week visit), the eternal green and the bottomless black. Twenty years down the road I’ll look back on my time in Ireland, 2005 and see a montage of smiles and laughs and clinking glasses. The surf will be in there for sure—and there will be a series of long, winding, windswept lefthanders—but the prevalent images will be about cheer and camaraderie, the importance of communing with your fellow man. When you strip it back to just that, hanging and enjoying and not really asking for anything more than what’s in front of you, Ireland is as good as it gets.
35mm Transparency
Naked salutation
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Film maker Chris Mannell stepped back from the shore and captured something of the Irish essence that Autumn. Mixing the digital and the analogue, the images burn into the cortex like the light from a dream.
Super 8 Perspectives
Left and Right from the Castle.
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Super 8 Perspectives
The September House, foot of the Burren Crab Island & the Castle Quiver & Thatch Ross Imms, Mayo Mass Production Crow’s Outlook John Eldridge, Easky Left Thor Jonsson’s Rapid Entry Endless Road, the central plateau Alex, Fishie Cuttie
Super 8 Perspectives
The Lane to the Burren Departures Crossing the Irish Sea Mayo Reef Dance Lefts Aplenty Checking the Reality Lonely Lineup Working Man Lonely Road Two’s Company
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Devon based lensman Jamie Bott spies Tyler Hatzikian’s cat-footed, muscular style at Easky left. The Californian cheats five in the barrel then explodes into a drop knee turn, bringing a timeless brand of power surfing to the edge of the Old World. Wave riding post-modernist or just a really good surfer? The choice is yours.
200160
The Flight of the Albatross
Part Two words Daniel Crockett
I can hear the whistle play
A tune enticing me away The spell it weaves I must obey And lures me down to Doolin Hearts there are never weak Even though the land is bleak 72-73
There you’ll find the peace you seek Way below in Doolin. Doolin by Seamus McGrath
- Oughtdarra The Burren is a mystic area of limestone crags, valleys and escarpments that covers 250 square kilometres. In places it is over 750 metres deep, and it is home to as diverse and unique a collection of flora and fauna as anywhere in Europe. The place is heavy with atmosphere. We make our way to the September house, a thatched cottage down the Mohawk lane with grass grown deep down the centre. Behind the house, the Burren surfaces, and the tranquility of the rock haunts the valley. Standing atop the cliff side, looking over the islands, one gets the impression of a vast and silent history‌ the coolness of the stones creeps up and engulfs the watcher. It is no surprise that talking in this landscape feels out of place. The house itself is spacious, and an eclectic collection of souls squeeze in. There are constant new arrivals, fresh stories, a forum of good people. Old and new faces mingle. I select a corner in the living room, and inflate my air mattress, Greenough-like.
200500 - trapped If Jimy could get home everyone would feel a lot happier. He is Santa Cruz bound within a week, and desperately wants to see family before, yet he is thwarted at every turn‌ low-cost airlines hate longboarders. He is stuck, trapped in Ireland. Paradise becomes prison. We drive to the airport and Sam bails, but Jimy is forced to turn back at the gates. Road trip reality sets in. And to compound matters, the swell is down and mushy. Frustration begins to surface‌ people make calls to check spots, others disagree, the reality is simple: waves are fickle and without a versatile local knowledge, the chances of scoring somewhere are slim. We check beaches and reefs, wondering about each headland and cove. Nothing is revealed.
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Out of Western seas
Eileen Aroon Fresh on the Western breeze Eileen Aroon Heads bowed in misery Heard voices distantly Telling of liberty Eileen Aroon! The Greening years Michael Coady & Seamus Mcgrath
200750 - Sligeach Easky Britton had never ridden a fish before. I lend her the DT 5’10’’. It looks huge when she carries it. She paddles into the left, thick with the Americans; sporting an atypical crowd. I watch her catch one before the wind comes up, and she changes her style to suit the board, surfing high lines and flatter than normal. Her grace is evident. Another generational link is established - in the finest tradition - of a young surfer adopting the poise and balance of her family. Easky is only 19, level-headed and very aware of her ability and place… a true representation of Irish surfing for the future. Our Californian friends, in Ireland and glad, reveal the cutting edge of alternative style. Tyler Hatzikian moves his ten-footer with subtlety. His style is technical, the magic lies in the bend of a leg and blurred seams of footwork. Without closely watching this man, from land at least, it is not obvious. But then he’ll pick one off from way back, cheat five through the barrel, make that seamless transition from low to high line whilst balancing the plank under his feet, and in turn being balanced by the enormous scoop from the nose: future and past, past and future. Dane Peterson, ever the grom, navigates his Skip Frye fish (a gift from the man himself, believe) through some knee-bound tunnels and smooth arcs at his feet on exit. Kernow scribbler Nick Radford catches his morning quota of fortythree waves and paddles in after a five hours, stoked and already hungry for the afternoon session. Alas, it is not to be. The wind switches west and the swell recedes as fast as the crowd.
201300 - mile failte The cottage is all but empty. The cat remains on the back step, licking his balls and ticks, wondering about his next meal. Inside, the silence is impenetrable. Even the piano sounds muted. I imagine the bustle of the people, their laughter and stories and memories echoing in the melting pot. September, over now, a metaphor and lesson for life: live with relish, for the transience of all things is perhaps the only certainty. On leaving Doolin for the last time, a poem on the pub wall stands out:
201300
‘Stopping by a Clare graveyard after hours’
O u t o f a l l t h e ye a r s a n d t h e l a u g h t e r j u s t l e t m e re m e m b e r / O n e
m o m e n t o f k i s s i n g I s t o o d b y t h e s e a w i t h a g i r l / W h i l e y o u w e re u p t h e re t h ro n e d o n t h e h i l l w i t h t h e d aw n a t y o u r s h o u l d e r / G ra c i n g y o u r m u s i c with wakening song of the birds / The tiding out to sea is still taking a n d g i v i n g a n d s h a p i n g / T h e ge n t i a s a n d v i o l e t s b re a k i n t h e s p r i n g f ro m t h e s t o n e / T h e w o r l d a n d h i s m o t h e r go re e l i n g a n d j i g g i n g fo re v e r / In a n s w e r t o s o m e t h i n g t h a t t ro u b l e s t h e b l o o d a n d t h e b o n e ./ S o I h a v e t o re p o r t t h e re’s n o e n d t o t h e s o n g a n d t h e s t o r y/ A n d e n o u g h m u s i c i n i t t o s e n d u s a l l d r u n k o n o u r w a y / A s I go t o my s l e e p I a s k fo r a s m i l e a n d a b l e s s i n g - S a C a ra m o c l e i b, b i m e i d re s c i s g a i r s u i l r o c re Michael Coady, 1984, written for Pakie Russell, 1920-1977
The Night in the
Castle
words Michael Fordham
78-79
Castle Dwelling Kieron Black
Thing is, you see, I love camping, but hate tents. I can’t bear the hot sweaty 3am feeling of wet vinyl in your face and the claustrophobic itch all salt encrusted and stout saturated - especially on a surf trip with a two-bob tent from Woolworth’s. We’d made the drive up from Clare on the strength of an electronically generated murmur of a northwesterly swell combined with southerly winds. Everything about the chart had whispered… “Easky”. And no surfer worth the weight of their wax could ever ignore those portentous syllables. Pulling up to the castle just before dusk, it was obvious that the predicted southerly was there, all right. Howling so it was. The crew swarmed over the vehicles stripping the boards from the Thule and jumped in at the shoulder-high right as it peaked and peeled against the wind. As the sun finally sank into the last day of September, we de-suited en masse and the crew hurriedly erected their well-chosen Vangos and Force Tens whilst I fumbled with the aforementioned Kids Camping Starter Set. I was teetering on the brink of low-blood-sugar breakdown owing to a lack of carb after a particularly torrid high-tide get-out at Doolin that morning, the three-hour drive north and that bump-and-grind sundowner. There were eighteen of us for curry above the visitor centre in the village. You know the drill. Deep cerebrum stoke and waves of banter resounding from the walls. All the spices of the east, too much red wine and warm Carlsberg coagulating in the stomach. The biological chain reaction swamped my senses with an illusory feeling of wellbeing – the kind you know will extract a price sooner or later. We staggered along the burn back to the huddle of tents in the lee of the castle gone midnight. I crawled into the madly flapping pit oblivious, and fell instantly into the sleep of a thousand men. Two hours later, maybe three, I woke to the wet, repetitive slap of man-made fibres on the bridge of my nose. The southerly had gained power and had made short shrift of my amorphous carbuncle of an improvised dwelling. My whole world was wailing, flapping and vibrating. The tent was buggered and there was only one thing for it. I’d have to camp down in the castle. Moonlight angled through a silhouette of Land Rovers stuffed with sleeping surfers and assorted flotsam, the ancient loom of the castle, and the irritatingly sturdy hunkerdowns
occupied by my fellow travellers. All was bathed in the silver of the moon. High, quickly moving clouds punctuated the flood as stars picked out pinpricks in a sky of deep-blue velvet. I lingered a couple of seconds at the breach to take in the scene, then with a deep breath pushed through into the bowels of the castle. There was a hollow in the ground set into the west wall. A chaos of cans and crisp packets littered the burnt carbon floor that had hosted countless fires, witness to feasts, famine and the furies of the nameless. There was the alkaline tang of piss and quiet scurryings in the corners. I was so tired that even the stench and the vermin didn’t ward me from sleep. I nestled up to the hollow, drew my sleeping bag around me and drifted out of consciousness. As I nodded off it occurred to me that I was just the latest in a long line of refugees who had sought shelter here. Little did I know I was about to make their acquaintance.
Every surfer has dreamt of waves. But the waves I saw that
night were dark, angry and foreboding. Intermingled with the endless crash of the black, lined-up liquid walls were horrific images of defilement and corruption; fragments of depersonalised sex; violence and suffering attached to creatures as well as humans. And there was the howl – just a sustained moan that oscillated in intensity as it pierced the walls of the castle against the sound of the sets crashing on the reef outside. Though I never knew quite, until dawn began to show itself through the hole in the wall, whether I was asleep or awake, I knew there was a presence there. It was as if someone was watching over me but wanted to let me know that I shouldn’t have been there. It felt as if each time I drifted out into sleep, a presence – unmistakably male and angry – would shake me and wake me again. And it was if this entity knew my weaknesses. It knew that I was anxious about tackling the cold, ferociously building swell that was waiting for us in the morning in front of my peers. It knew that I felt guilty about leaving my family to ride waves again. It knew that I was frightened by the prospect of tackling left-hand barrels against the howling wind that had drawn us this far north to Sligo. Feelings, presence and ambience accumulate. Castles and coastlines and a thousand years of history leave traces. I woke up that morning, paddled out and the nightmares were rinsed out of me in the foam. I won’t be sleeping in the castle again. But neither will I stuff myself with curry, red wine and lager and then go straight to sleep…
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So many people contributed to this book in word, picture, inspiration, spirit, laughs, booze, banter, faith, fun and every other way imaginable. It goes without saying that I thank everyone who helped out along the way and who believed in the idea from the start. It’s been a long and winding road. Special humble apologies goes to Karl Ward whose board I wrecked in the Lahinch carpark, and extra thanks to David and Clare Hieatt whose vision and pure heart allows them to practice what they preach. Props out to Paul Anderson for showing me that spot, and to everyone else at Cardigan Bay’s third largest clothing company for doing the right thing. Huge respect to Helen Gilchrist at Stranger for providing the context and to Ross and Alex for their patience and typographic excellence. Biggup to John Isaac for the beautiful story that was Revolver: how we miss her! She was a gorgeous seedling. Also to Perry and Marky P for inspiration, faith and having facilitated fuel and food. The whole crew at Land Rover provided the wheels, and Clare for the proofing, the curry and other nutritious niceness. Massive shouts to Sandow, Jamie, Marcus and friends, and to Dane Peterson, Tyler and our other Californian compadres for being there and sharing waves and good vibes. Jimy Newitt: praise be for his subtle vision and even subtler sense of trim, props to Bleakley for the glide and to Thor, Peter and Murphy for bringing their own distinct and unique vision despite strange circumstances. Crockett & Eldridge killed it, Chris Mannell captured it on film, and Chris @ APB quoted it. Huge thanks to all the good folks at Tourism Ireland for getting it, and to Kieron Black for the original inspiration (memories of Bosun the Dalmation) and to Nick Radford for the eternal amends. Respect to the Fisherman’s Weir at Easky for going way beyond the call, and to Mickey Smith for providing the porn at the last minute. Massive respect to the Britton Clan, to Easky for her fresh perspective, and the people we met who shared the waves and the stories and the happiness. We’re a lucky bunch. This entire project is dedicated to Lucy Jane, Gabriel Coltrane, Jude John and Gracie May.
www.howies.co.uk
www.september-project.com
Bundoran
Easky
Doolin
Donegal
Lahinch
Mayo
Clare
discoverireland.com
Sligo
Easky Tara Darby
I first met Easky Britton on the headland overlooking Tullen Strand round the corner from Bundoran’s Peak. Though she was only 14 at the time, it was easy to see her relationship with the ocean was intimate and intense. Being from one of the founding families of Irish surfing, she was tutored in the water by her father, the mysterious bearded artist and hardcharging Peak specialist Barry Britton. The graciousness of spirit she displayed at that early age had survived when we met up in September. And by now the 19-year-old ripped, and bantered with the best of them, too. As her mother, NC, said to me those years ago, it’s as if Easky has passed this way before. She seemed more centred, more grounded than her years should have allowed. It seemed fitting that we end with Tara Darby’s beautiful portrait of a surfer who bears the name of one of the jewels in the Irish surf crown. Look out for her and her folks if you ever get to the Irish coast. They’ll be getting a lot more waves than you. Michael Fordham