Bobby Vs The ASP
I’ve purposely given this issue a bit of time to cool down before providing my commentary. I think in hindsight it’s a bit easier to analyze things; the controversy that arose from this stirred a pot of heated emotion from both parties involved, and the media had a feeding frenzy.
Here is our Robshead comment on all of this.
Bobby’s Actions: I think Bobby got so wound up that he just lost it. His points were valid; his delivery was backed with a bitter heat — an uproar of emotion that conveyed his message to the public eye with reckless abandon. Perhaps he thought professional surfers’ opinions, thoughts, and concerns were not only being smothered by the conglomerate surfing world, but extinguished. Perhaps he thought surfers didn’t have a voice. Perhaps he was fed up with the pre-packaged BS spoonfed to surfers by interview coaches about what to say and how to say it. Fed up with the extremely subjective judging and favoritism. Fed up with the fakeness of it all. And he was to be this martyr to expose the inherent evils of professional surfing’s shadowy politics. The ASP fired back with suspension for the remainder of the year, and possible expulsion from ASP competitive surfing for good. Was this action an objectively warranted discipline, or threatening implied lesson to others?
Devil’s Advocate: Bobby gets paid to travel around the world and surf. When you have that for a living, why is it essential to have a voice? Just shut up and surf.
Rebuttal to the Devil’s Advocate: Surfers are people. People need to know that they’re important. That they matter. That they are actual people instead of mere subjects of spectation. Even in a dream job if you don’t quite agree with things, or have frustrations, or have suggestions on how to make things better, or merely just want to voice your opinion, you should be able to express that with consideration and feedback. And yes, if your voice is not being heard, and you are strong-headed enough, you WILL make yourself be heard. Case in point: Bobby. Albeit, at the expense of his career, his initial interview and subsequent commentary sent a major shockwave of controversy and discussion surrounding the whole structure of how the ASP runs the professional tour and treats its athletes.
Tales from the Tube
T.H. Watkins, the late nature writer, recounts his powerful realization of waveriding transcendence while bodysurfing Dana Point as a boy in the late 1940’s:
“The lip of the wave curved over my head, and for one brief instant I found myself in a long, green translucent tunnel that stretched 40 or 50 feet on either side of me. That moment was when I heard The Sound — a high, hollow, almost metallic keening that cut through the outside roar of the surf until it was all that could be heard. It seemed to come from a great distance, like a cry out of the ancestral night, then swept over me and moved on just as the wave seized my helpless body and plunged it through the water and into the sand. . .when I finally surfaced I was certain I had been privileged to experience one of the essential mysteries. . .I remain as convinced today as I was then that I had heard nothing less than the voice of the sea itself.”
PHOTO: CLARK LITTLE
Inside the Spirit Catcher
Hello ladies and gents, it’s been awhile since my last post. I figured I’d run a little spread on my recent outings with my Go Pro HD helmet cam. You’ll notice the barrel shot in my opening slide show; that shot is also with the Go Pro HD. My set up is with a Gath helmet. Surf spots will remain anonymous.
This is a frame grab out of a series of over 20 videos I shot one evening last week. I gave the color correction a go on Photoshop, and I think it came out pretty good! Lots of different complex hues going on here, and if you’re not a surfer it really is an interesting perspective you don’t get to see everyday. I was shooting directly into the setting sun, and the ISO on the Go Pro has a bit of difficulty in this type of lighting. I think the cam does best with the sun directly over head.
This wave was from the previous day, also picked from around 20 videos. I didn’t put any Rain Ex on the lens and thus had a pretty bad problem with water droplets. I’ve heard that Go Pro cams have a little reputation for this. Nonetheless, it’s a deep, thick, dark little cave sort of tube. My brother did the photo correction on this.
Both days were around 4 feet. I want to get this camera out in some big blue barrels, and really see what kind of shots I can get. If these are any indicator, I should have some great pics/videos on the way in the near future. Stay tuned.
Nature by Example
One day I’m going to build a skatepark in my backyard. And when I do, I’m going to use this photo as inspiration. I believe it’s the Box in West Oz. Someone please correct me if I’m wrong. Definitely on my list of places to surf before I die. Nature by example.
Classic Pipeline Photo
Every once in awhile you see a photo that is truly awe-inspiring; one that leaves you in a blank state of pure astonishment. This photo (10th in a 13 shot sequence by Hank) displays the sheer, raw power of Hawaiian heavywater at it’s finest. Derek Ho gracefully negotiates a massively square chamber of epic proportions — reinforcing the ultimate vision of wave riding as a delicate relationship between man and nature.
Photo: Hank; shot 1/2/11
See Surfline.com for the entire sequence.
Rest In Peace Andy Irons
A tragic passing of one of surfing’s most beloved brothers. Our thoughts and sincerest prayers go out to his family and loved ones. You will be missed, and always remembered as one of the great sons of Hawaii.
Fiji’s Heart Shaped Box
Tavarua: the tiny Fijian heart shaped island rich with legend and dreamy mystique. Noted for its waves in 1982 by American yachtsman John Ritter, and made famous in 1984 by a Surfer Magazine cover story, it’s become a top destination on every surfer’s list of places to go before they die. From the thundering offshore ledge of Cloudbreak, to the machine-like freight training barrels of Restaurants, Tavarua is host to two of the world’s greatest surfing marvels. Shifty politics throughout the years aside, the Tavarua surf camp has claimed and maintained exclusive surfing and fishing rights to the surrounding waters for almost 25 years. Now, that is all about to change. The Fiji Cabinet’s approval yesterday of “The Promulgation of the Regulation of Surfing Areas Decree 2010″ will lawfully instate that surfing locales are not to be claimed by any entity, anywhere, at any time, in the country of Fiji. The Attorney General remarked that Fijian economy will benefit greatly from unrestricted access regarding surfing tourism. What does this mean for Tavarua resort? What does this mean for the future of surfing at Tavarua?
And the bigger question here: is this good or bad?
On the one hand: yes, this is good. This means if you go to Fiji, and don’t stay on the expensive island resort of Tavarua, you lawfully have a right to surf the waves around the island. Because hey, the ocean and the waves don’t belong to anyone right? Why should someone have to stay at a specific resort to surf specific waves?
On the other hand: this is bad. Very, very bad. Tavarua has retained it’s golden egg mystique simply because of its exclusivity; the ability to ride some of the world’s best waves in the company of only a handful of individuals is of the rarest of opportunities and absolutely priceless in a surfing world that has been tragically exploited my media, greed, and corruption. We’ve seen it happen time and again: from the development of the Bukit Penninsula due to rediculous hoards of surfers on Bali, to the endless fleets of boat charters out in Mentawais, the surfing world has been subjected to mass advertising and over-exposure, tarnishing the whole dream of surf travel — to find flawless, empty perfection.
Sure, the owners of Tavarua want to make money. But I believe the main vision isn’t about money at all. It’s about the preservation of the innocence of the surfing dream. It’s about the protection of one of surfing’s last unspoiled gems. Tavarua is a place where one can step back in time to a much simpler, magical, care-free mentality – where the outside world disappears, and all that matters is you, the waves, the few people around you, and the natural beauty of the Earth. Tavarua in one word, makes you: pure.
Will Tavarua suffer the ”ants on the turdlog” effect because of this decree, or are we just over-reacting? I guess only time will tell.
Back to Bali
The subconscious mind is shrewdly interesting — communicating with the conscious mind seems to be its little game. Most times, I’m unaware of my subconscious, blinded by the moves of daily life and habitual roundabout distractions: my job, my career ambitions, the insignificant happenings in my bubble around me. . .who knew that in these past 24 hours, my psyche would unwarrantedly be torn apart and fitted back together, leaving me with a renewed infatuation of my wanderlust passions.
The sickness had visited me. It began after a long day’s work, and after a 4 day, Chinese fire drill of a social bender involving binge drinking with friends, befriending strangers, and skateboarding through San Francisco like a banchee on wheels dressed in a wig, muscle suit, and devil horns. The sickness rushed over my body like a small demon, carefully and methodically infesting my innards, while my innocent mind was preoccupied with the Giants/Padres game.
At first thought: a delayed hangover, backed with extreme fatigue of the weekend. My stomach cramped, dull at first. The fatigue was overwhelming. I retreated to my bed at 9:00pm, no dinner.
Slipping into a delusional state, my mind wandered, and my condition worsened. Thoughts became streamed patterns of intriguing hallucinatory nonsense; my stomach pulsated with knives.
10:30pm: shivers come. I was cold to the soul, hot to the touch. The sickness had become a delightful psychedelic terror. Feet were icy, head was boiling. The demon had comfortably and subliminally etched its way in.
11:30pm: all hell breaks loose. Off to the bathroom, for a 45 minute purge, with simultaneous liquid combustions from all chambers. I cleaned up, looked in the mirror, and my skin had a dirty yellow tinge, dripping with sweat. Called in for reinforcements, and apologized to my roommate. The Bali Belly’s cousin Salmonella had come to visit me, perhaps a good slap to the face, and the only thing that would make me come out of my forsaken working man’s hypnosis.
I couldn’t help but think about the last time I remember someone puking and turding liquid at once: it was my friend Ben; he had gotten the Bali Belly while we were on a surf trip there, and was floored for 2 days. Picture Montezuma’s revenge x3. He thought it was Malaria in his delusional state, I reaffirmed he just had the belly.
I popped 3 Imodium, 2 Tylenol, gulped some Pepto, a bottle of water, texted my boss I wasn’t coming in, and went to bed.
My dreams were confusing, colorful, wonderfully rich psychedelic canvases of my past Balinese travels fused with vivid, imaginative future travels. Bintang time with Ben at Benyasa 1, laughing with the locals; eating steaks at a restaurant filled with traditionally rich Balinese art with my brother, and a liquor store in the back as big as Bevmo. Calling my dad on my cell phone in Bali to tell him about the amazing time we were all having, and telepathically almost sitting there with him. Surfing out at Bingin before sunset: a firey red-orange sky over a green stained glass ocean, with a majestic mountainous backdrop of the Bukit penninsula.
But there was always the reverb of white noised evil lingering about, lurking in the shadows. I woke, and off I went to the dunny again to repeat the cycle. 3 more times I would do this, each time making sure to hydrate afterward.
6:00am: completely stripped of all vitamins, nutrients, and minerals; my body was like a hard drive wiped of all information. I began sipping more water, and reflected on this experience I had just been through; it was as if I had been possessed by an entity that had forced me into this downward spiral of physical chaotic purging, in turn cleansing my mind, body, and spirit. I woke with a state of mental clarity I hadn’t felt in over a year, free of the convolution of the inane, mundane bubble that once consumed me. I slept all day, floating in and out of the dream world. Finally mustering the energy to eat, and go on my laptop, I browsed Indo surfing sites, read Indo blogs, and it dawned on me:
When Reality Becomes a Nightmare It’s Time to Live the Dream.
The Other Superbowl
Superbowl Sunday has been a tradition for me — but not in the traditional sense. This Sunday is very unique in that virtually every sports fan (and even non sports fan) is tuned into the big game on television. For the surfer, this translates into a rare opportunity to score a day of epic, empty perfection out in the water.
During a good winter, brutal storms and heavy rains batter the California coast relentlessly, and by the time February rolls around, mystic sandbars have formed and lay in wait for those who know where to search.
One particular fleeting sandbar fires every year in February when all of these elements come together. That sandbar was dubbed by a fellow surfer and I as the Super Bowl, named so in 2007 when we traded these square bowling waves for 5 hours by ourselves on Superbowl Sunday. The wave only sticks around for about a month or so before getting washed out, so if you want a piece of this grinding A-frame, you really gotta be on it. There’s nothing better than surfing a wave like this all by yourself, or with one other surfer trading off insane barrels all day long.
These are the days that surfers live for. Will the Super Bowl go off this year?