I wasn’t born to be a surfer; I grew up in a family of non-surfers, twenty miles from the coast in Orange County California. In my teens I had to beg my parents to take me to the beach and I didn’t really know that surfed-out, beach-bleached, salt-crusted skin feel till I was 16. However, despite my late entry into the lineup, Hawaii was somewhere that was always on my radar. It was warm, it was beautiful, and it was rich in surf history and culture. I made it my goal to someday call the Aloha State my home.

Making the Dream Move

Shortly after graduating from college, my dreams came to a screeching halt when I came down with a mysterious illness. I spent five years bedridden and another two recovering, but when I finally felt well enough to travel, I began considering a move. It was 2021, and although travel was allowed, it was still COVID times. Being immune compromised, I silently considered my options. One day, I hopped on Hawaiian Airlines’ website for kicks. One-way tickets were $99. The decision was made.

An overseas move is not easy. You must find a place to live sight unseen, pack your entire life into two suitcases, and figure out what you’re going to do about work when you get there. Luckily, I had a good friend who had moved to Oahu six months before I made my decision, and she talked me through places she thought I’d like to live and the details of shipping my car.

I’d been working as a freelance surf journalist for nearly a decade, but work was slow thanks to COVID, so I figured I’d find a couple shifts a week on a tourist boat once I landed. I’d spent my entire life making responsible choices and planning everything out to a tee. But for the first time, at age 29, I was going to be a dreamer.

An Introduction to Hawaii’s History

Before moving, I spoke at length with a friend who had called Oahu her home for ten years. As a white woman from an upper-class family, she informed me that I should expect to experience racism for the first time in my life. In 1893, the Kingdom of Hawaii was illegally overthrown by American and European businessmen. Between that travesty and tourists frequently trashing their home, many Hawaiians didn’t take well to white people, or haoles as they call them.

I was anxious about how I would be perceived in and out of the water and I desperately wanted to connect with the locals. I decided to use my job to my advantage, and shortly after arriving on the island, I began working on an article for Surfline entitled ‘The Women of Waikiki.’ I met with prominent native Hawaiian longboarders Megan Godines, Geodee Clark, Tiki Willis, Kelis Kaleopaa, Kelia Moniz, Malia Kaleopaa, Tammy Moniz, and Tiara Bella. We paddled out at Queens, shared some waves, and talked story for hours.

They shared insight into Oahu’s history, their thoughts on tourists and outsiders, their tight-knit community, and the best ways to keep the Hawaiian culture alive. It was incredibly insightful and eye-opening. What it all ultimately boiled down to was respect – respect for the land (aina) and the Hawaiian people.

The Surf Scene

As primarily a longboarder, I was under the assumption that I would spend the majority of my time surfing at Queens in Waikiki. It’s the perfect longboard wave and relatively gentle for someone who was a very intermediate surfer. My first few sessions, I paddled out at Queens, being careful to be respectful, especially to the locals. I quickly learned Queens would not be my staple surf spot. One, I hate crowds and it’s in the heart of Waikiki. Two, it’s packed with tourists who don’t know what they’re doing and local pros who I’d never stand a chance of out-paddling.

I moved to Oahu in late April, so the south shore was just warming up upon my arrival. I began exploring various breaks, careful to only paddle out at new spots if I was with a friend or under the guidance of a local. Lots of the breaks have shallow reefs and to this day, I still prefer to try new spots with someone who’s surfed them before. I hit Diamond Head, Sandbar, Kaisers, Threes, Rockpiles, Straight Outs, Canoes, Pops, and Marinelands. I wanted the consistency of a homebreak to meet people and make friends, but I loved the variety, and instead, surfed wherever the conditions were favourable each day.

I came into my move expecting big, heavy surf and constant criticism from the locals. What I found was that, most of the time, the south shore is soft and friendly. When there’s swell, it can be challenging, but there was always somewhere a very intermediate surfer like me could surf. And as the women of Waikiki said, if you’re respectful, you’ll be treated with respect back. After five years of calling Oahu my home, I have yet to have a bad experience in the water.

The post A Surfer in Hawaii: Making the Dream Move to Oahu appeared first on Tracks Magazine.

I squint towards the waves rumbling across the reefs on the lagoon’s outer edge. It’s too early to really see what the swell is doing, and I wonder what hollow treasures the day will bring.  

The track leads to the main ‘Uma’ (Indonesian house), which serves as the epicentre of activity at Hidden Bay, Resort.  This super-sized version of the UMA is three stories high and features sturdy, log pillars, smooth wooden floorboards that feel the contours of your feet, and a traditional thatch-weave in the roof. It’s grand designs Indonesian style.  “I built it from scratch,” Alex, the resort’s owner had boasted with a proud smile peeling across his sun-bronzed face. 

When I reach the Uma’s main deck, the resort is already rumbling to life in anticipation of the forecasted waves. Alex strikes the large gong hanging from a rafter to signal it’s time to mobilise. Nine of the guests are prodigious grommets competing in a barrel riding event. A tube duel in the tropics where the best, hollow ride wins. As Alex whacks the gong with wide-grinning pleasure, the wave warriors scramble to get ready, appearing on the deck with a favoured ride under the arm and a pair of boardshorts in the other. 

Scott, the bearded, spartan trainer leads us through a ten-minute warm-up routine before we snatch at fruit, coffee and crackers and load our gear onto the surf boats. Breakfast can wait when the waves are on. Soon the bow of our narrow, wooden boat is spearing through the cross-chop; the whirring acoustics of the engine delivering a familiar soundtrack to the daily wave hunting ritual. Anticipation runs high on the smell of diesel. 

Fifteen minutes later we arrive in the channel at No-Kandui. A single, roping swell grips the top of the reef, before funnelling down the shelf at unfathomable speed. The curling wave bends and breathes as it sprints across the shallows, challenging any contender to try and keep up. Our crew are more than willing, leaping overboard to beat the crowds.

Anthony Walsh is the first to stroke into one. He chases down a gleaming blue wall like a shark pursuing a fish, every part of his movement is purposeful, refined and predatory. A Go Pro camera is gripped between his teeth as he slides into the tube. He’s built a career around being a hollow wave specialist who invites viewers to explore the inner-most limits with his POV, camera trickery. A day ago, he’d told me he’d been inspired by George Greenough’s groundbreaking inside-the-barrel footage from Crystal Voyager.

Anthony Walsh at Kandui.

After Walshy blurs past me, I turn to see the hordes coming, leaping off boats like soldiers spoiling for the fight, hearts full of wave lust and heads spinning with cunning tricks to do whatever is required to snag a wave…. I know the mindset all too well because I’m no different.

As the armada arrives, the tube duel kicks off. Five grommets paddle out with a US $1500 cash incentive to claim the deepest, heaviest, longest pit. Four-to-six-foot Nokandui is a worthy playing field for their jousting. If the crowd disapproves of their presence they don’t indicate it. The groms have no claim on the lineup, they’re just four extra bodies in the water. It’s not an official event where the water is cleared; it’s more relaxed than that – ‘just paddle out and try get a barrel’. Best one wins.

While the prodigious groms forage for waves, an Ozi tube hound claims a howling barrel right under their noses; the wave moves at a perfect pace as he hooks in for the length of the reef. He’s wearing a hooded, long-sleeve rash-vest that makes him look like a giant-pelican as he slides through multiple sections. The crowd hoots, he’s the everyman scoring the wave of a lifetime – exactly what they all came here for.  When he kicks off, we get chatting and he explains he’s from the northern beaches and has just arrived from Bali. The full-length rashie is a desperate measure to cover up after he got baked on a long, shirtless day of surf in Bali.

Jackson Dorian – son of Shane Dorian – is in the event. Way up the reef, he swings late and parachutes from the lip on his backhand. The laws of physics are against him, but he has the compact frame and balance of an Olympic gymnast, and sticks the drop, before swinging hard off the bottom and throttling into a gaping barrel. Favourable genetics, a father’s footsteps to follow in, and a few months-straight in Indo all help him hold the line. Eventually the wave clamps, but the seventeen-year-old’s self-confidence and apparent ability are startling.

Jackson’s ride is matched by a lantern-jawed, blonde American who stuffs his lanky, surf-honed frame into a roaring pit that never quite offers an escape. Later, he earnestly gives me the moment-by-moment breakdown of the ride. The barrel is the only currency that counts out here and people take it seriously. Later, someone tells me the guy taught Erin Brooks how to surf back in Hawaii. I don’t doubt the reference, given how confidently rock-jaw navigates the line-up.

Meanwhile, at the top of the reef a helmeted figure with a bulky, impact vest waits stoically for the deepest sets. He looks like some kind of surfing ninja-turtle. You can’t fault his commitment, but he’s working on the law of averages; hurling his frame over the ledge, happy to take horror wipeouts until he makes one. Between sets, someone explains that he’s a regular in the Kandui lineup, a rich guy who’s made his money and is now content to dedicate his days to a masochistic pursuit of deep barrels, most way beyond his ability level.

Further down the line, I’m humbled by a teenage girl from Cronulla who swoops on inside runners, sets a rail and masterfully navigates the racy walls. On a crowded day she is finding gaps in the lineup, stroking in purposefully and having more fun than most. Dad watches on proudly, wondering if there’s anything better in the world than riding a few good waves with his daughter.

Eventually the wind ruffles and the crowd swells. It’s time to return to Hidden Bay for lunch. Sated by a wholesome plate of fresh fish, rice and salad I stroll back along the sandy, coconut-shell path to my room.  The fierce, mid-day heat stifles my pace and my muscles ache with the morning’s efforts. The air is permeated by the sweet scent of fresh cloves, which have been laid out to dry alongside the path by the island locals. Climbing slowly up the stairs to my air-conditioned room, I can think only of the coolness inside, the book I will read from and the slow drift into afternoon sleep… horizontal recovery before heading out to do it all again in the afternoon.  

The post Postcard: Hidden Bay, Mentawai Islands appeared first on Tracks Magazine.

Mikey’s latest venture with Channel Islands Surfboards is ‘Feb’s fish’ which sees Mikey and Britt take the classic outline of a fish and pair it with a modern template in order to allow for the highest performance possible.

The crew at Onboard Store have teamed up with former World Champ Tom Carroll, as part of their ongoing YouTube series ‘What’s Going On?’, to review Mikey’s latest model.

TC and Luca Elder put the fish through its paces in some Sydney summer slop and it’s safe to say, that at 63, Tom is looking as loose as ever.

Click the link above to watch.

The post WATCH: Tom Carroll gets loose on Mikey February’s fish appeared first on Tracks Magazine.

This archive was featured in Tracks Magazine Issue no. 252, September, 1991.

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J-BAY DREAM SEQUENCE

Words & Photos by Sarge

There are classic surf spots, but there is only one Jeffreys Bay. There are surfers and there are more surfers, but there is only one Derek Hynd. So, when one of surfing’s most bizarre and eccentric personalities decided to stage a contest at one of surfing’s most famous and revered breaks we knew we were in for a unique experience. Former top 16 surfer, now journalist and surf coach, Hynd’s brainchild was innovative and progressive but the delivery wasn’t as smooth as it could have been. The labour was long but, like any new birth, rewarding.

The event was called the Country Feeling J-Bay Dream Sequence. Derek’s original dream was to bring the world’s top 30-rated surfers and a collection of legends to the Mecca named Jeffreys and mix it with the locals in six rounds of a week-long competition.

Each surfer would contest every round, with the points being cumulative. There would be no contest singlets, hence attracting the best film-makers and photographers from around the world to capture all the action and, as long as Huey played ball, virtually guarantee an epic. To link the fantasy to reality, and further entice the world’s best carvers, a block of land at J-Bay would be put up as the winner- take-all purse. It sounded insane, eccentric, and downright indulgent.

When DH first announced his concept at the Coke Classic back in April the response from the surfers and the media was mixed. All agreed it sounded all-time but adopted a wait-and-see attitude. The cynics and sceptics always have a field day with eccentrics, don’t they. The ASP, according to Derek, expressed their support of the entire concept, and South African clothing entrepreneurs Ary and Cheron Kraak put up the “Country Feeling” as the providers of the sacred turf for the winner. It seemed to be all coming together, with both surfers and photographers committing to attend, but then the wheel fell off.

Tragically, if not hypocritically, it came to notice that such a herbal event at such a herbal place had been tainted by the ugliness of politics. Country Feeling have been co-hosting, with Billabong, the Jeffreys Bay Classic on the South African pro-am circuit for years, and they ALWAYS have the full- moon dates in July to run their event. This year though, there was some stuff-up, and the Country Feeling/Billabong Pro-am was slotted the week before the full moon. The full-moon dates were allocated to another pro-am in Cape Town. There are two sides to the story of who stuffed up, but the Dream Sequence was slotted into the Cape Town full-moon dates as virtual opposition to the other contest and in protest at the alleged fumbling of the official who looked at a 1990 lunar calendar in setting the dates for the 1991 season.

Because the Dream Sequence was running in opposition to an ASP-sanctioned event, the ASP withdrew its blessing of Derek’s event and barred the top 30 from participating. The only top 30 surfers allowed to attend were Rip Curl surfers, because Derek, as Rip Curl International coach, could call it a training event.

This all went down within a month of the scheduled event. Eventually, in fact a matter of days before the event, a compromise was reached, with the Dream Sequence being shortened to four days-finishing the day before the Cape Town event, and thereby not conflicting. It was too late for all the world’s best surfers to change their schedules and get flights into J-Bay.

A formidable crew was assembled just the same. Damien Hardman, Nick Wood, Simon Law, Luke Egan, Ross Clarke-Jones, Munga Barry, Marcus Brabant, Jeremy Byles, Richard Marsh and Americans Brad Gerlach and Chris Gallagher were more than enough to ensure one hell of a session.

So, the anointed gathered at the holy site on the Monday of the full-moon week. They had to run it. It was going to be a tight four days. Damien Hardman had never been to Jeffreys Bay before, and he wasn’t too stoked when he looked out over an ugly chopped-up line-up. The wind was howling in around 45 knots, cross-shore and up the face. It had been howling for around 36 hours and showed no sign of abating.

DH and his cronies postponed a start until noon. Dooma came back and spied the same conditions. Sighing with resignation, he went home to grab his board and returned 20 minutes later to grab his singlet. He was in the first heat. By some miracle the wind dropped and swung a full 180 degrees. It cleaned up into pristine four to six foot J-Bay, the best it had been for months. “It was certainly the most bizarre turn of fortune I’ve ever had myself. It was like I sold my soul,” said a relieved contest director Hynd.

The whole first heat was absolutely on it, because they were just buzzing at the freak of nature they had witnessed. South African Gordon Turnbull was the stand-out, throwing rooster tails up all along the marching lines as high as any surfer could. His fellow countryman, Pierre “Toasted” Tostee, was mindless in the barrel the following heat. At the end of the day, 17-year-old local Warren Dean had put the cat among the pigeons with a flawless performance that could only come from an intimacy with the wave. Derek saw it from the water.

“The heat included Warren, Gerlach, Justin Strong and Cass Collier. Dean won the heat because the guy proved that his floaters at J-Bay were the equal of, if not better than, Gerlach’s and Strong’s. The guy was pulling three critical floaters, on a pitching section, as well as pulling into two barrels on the one wave- and he kept it up, including on his last wave ten seconds from the end. He turned a three foot wave on a five foot day into a “red hot” just by linking every section by floating the lip and pulling into barrels. It was a highlight-something every local knew was possible Warren Dean’s beating the world’s best,” recalled Derek.

Derek’s terminology in categorising Dean’s ride as “red hot” came from the judging criteria for the event. There were two judges, with only one scoring at any time. Local fishermen/surfers Ary Kraak and Craig Van Rijn appraised the surfers’ per- formances based on the way they like to see Jeffreys surfed. Classifications of “cool”, “hot”, “red hot” and “outrageous” trans- lated to scores of seven, eight, nine and 10 (out of 10) respectively. A “cool” ride meant the guy was just cruising, making the wave with a bit of style. There were only three “outrageous” ratings given in the entire contest. Gordon Turnbull’s run down the line on a filthy six-footer in the first heat was one. Local Mickey Meyer proved how effective the judging system was, because he surfed to his ability but was so smooth on the face and close to the pocket that he was more like a “poor man’s Michael Peterson”, according to Derek.

“That’s not writing him off,” added DH. “That’s just saying that the guy showed flashes of how MP would have approached the wave just hooking in the pocket and bringing it down with a longer board.” At the end of the first day Pierre Tostee and Warren Dean held a joint lead on 28 points with Gordon Turnbull one point away in second.

The pros put the pedal to the metal on the next day though, as they adjusted to the wave and learned to handle its idiosyncrasies. Jeffreys is a deceivingly fast wave. If you overcommit to a manoeuvre, which is the natural tendency-especially in a contest you’ll be left behind the section, and there is fuck-all chance of catching that racing, peeling lip once it’s got the jump on you.

Finding that balance between commitment and down-the-line maintenance, Munga charged the South African pack and took the lead at the end of round two. Warren Dean would have been the equal leader, but he stood up after the hooter with 11 waves.

Even a “herbal” event had to have some rules, and since it was automatic starts there. could be no forgiveness for someone screwing around with the system. Mike Burness, Dooma Hardman, Brad Gerlach and Gordon Turnbull all hung in tight just off the pace.

By the end of the third round the top six guys were within a point of each other. At the end of the fourth round those six were in exactly the same places, each scoring 23 out of a possible 30 points. The swell had dropped a little on the second and third days but had refused to die. As the schedule came down to the wire the pressure was starting to tell on the surfers. Jeffreys was being surfed like it had rarely been surfed before in the early rounds, but as individuals began to rationalise that they could be in line for a block of land they began to take fewer risks.

It was time to stake a claim in round five. Gerlach broke clear with maybe the best effort of a single round-two points clear of Tostee, and one point ahead of Dooma and Luke Egan. Turnbull sat another point behind. At that stage only those five could win.

The swell kicked and cleaned up, miraculously again, for Thursday, the final day. Tostee blew it up by paddling too far up the point, while Gerlach had only a marginal heat missing some crucial sets. Luke Egan just fucking charged his heat and stitched the whole deal. It was hard to even separate his waves. He had 10 pearlers- nothing under a 7.5!

Earlier rounds had been 30 minutes/best three waves; the final round was 45 minutes/best four “Big Foot”‘s four included three nine-pointers and a 10. The 10 was a high-speed dizzy as he wound down the line like a roller-coaster car on fast- forward-seven raucous backhand hooks in a row and a filth barrel at the end of it. All his waves, but his last six in particular, were bizarre. It all equated to three “red hots” and one “outrageous”.

The other contender, Dooma, would have had to score the equivalent of 110 out of 120 on the ASP scale. The “record” is around 104. Dooma got four “red hots”, arguably surfing tighter than Luke actually was, but the sheer speed of the Novocastrian came through. Some crew who witnessed Occy ripping in ’84 were making comparisons. Pierre Tostee summed up the situation perfectly. “Luke! It was the best four waves, not the best 101”

So, Luke became a landlord. He took a few of us around to check it out late one after- noon. Located in a quiet cul-de-sac high over Albatross Point, it has commanding views up the coast and is just one minute’s drive from the J-Bay line-up. It even has a few gum trees. Luke reckons he’s going to bring back a koala next year to be caretaker. He should bring one back as a gift for Ary and Cheron as well. Donating a 35,000 rand (SA16,500) block of land for a contest with no sponsor ID other than a small sticker on everyone’s boards was pretty hard-core. They’re obviously into hard-core surfing. And they got plenty of it.

When the Dream Sequence ended most of the contest cast moved on to Cape- town, but a rock solid crew of ASP pros stayed behind till the last possible moment to revel in the swell that continued to wrap around the J-Bay point.

After a week of cruising and wallowing in the mellow vibe of an area reminiscent of the NSW north coast in the early ’70s, nobody was in any hurry to go elsewhere. It had been a routine of dawn checks and three sessions a day, interspersed with hanging out at Ary and Cheron Kraak’s insane house on the point and gluttonous dinners at a prime local restaurant.

Four days after the Dream Sequence finished the last day of June-Huey threw in a bonus that saw some of the crew clocking up four, five and even six hour sessions. The Bay was ‘pomping’, as the locals say, and Ross Clarke-Jones was one of the first out there.

I got down there at 6.15 am. It was still dark,” said Ross. “There was one guy there waiting in his car. He got out to get ready when I did but then I decided to bolt home and get a bigger board. When I came back he was getting cleaned up on the rocks and a kneeboarder was heading out.

“There were three of us out there and it was just pumping. It was six to eight and UNREAL! On one of my first couple of waves I had an astounding ride. It was a big huge wall. I did a few carves out the back then pulled in, came out and then got another barrel: a long, long one, SO fast. It was all-time, unreal. It’s hard to tell how long my best barrel was, it was just going so fast. You didn’t have to pump it or anything… just stand there. It was the best. J-Bay is even better than anything I’ve ever read or heard about the place.”

We were staying high up on a hill verandah as Terry Fitzgerald pulled into a crawled higher we watched from our barrel as he raced towards the section named Impossibles. He disappeared behind the curtain and then the wave dis- appeared behind a house down on the beach front. A few seconds later, on the other side of the house and out of the guts of a filthy pit, shot the familiar figure who’d stamped his style in the history books well over a decade ago at this very spot.

Fitz had come to Jeffreys an indignant legend after Derek Hynd had advised him that his invitation to the Dream Sequence had been withdrawn just ten days before the event. Fitz was of half a mind to surf through the contest area at will, but the cruisey vibe of this surfer’s town had disarmed most of his frustration. On the morning I’m talking about he was just revel- ling, utterly blissful. Fitz was thousands of miles from North Narrabeen, but he was as “at home” as he’d ever be.

The line-up was soon speckled from take-off to flick-out as the town went surfing. Munga Barry and Luke Egan charged like long-time locals. Nick Wood was going off with reos, hell floaters and plenty of flow, another who had it down. Marcus Brabant’s timing was all over the place but when he got it together on one he flew along the roof of an incredibly long section in a floater that was mind blowing.

Derek Hynd has had the place wired for years but things started getting so hectic even he got dropped in on while in the slot of his longest pit- and ripped a fin out in the process. Jeremy Byles was on after- burner (both meanings) and got a mega long barrel. American Chris Gallagher alleged that the lad from New Brighton burnt him on his best three. While all this went on, surfers bounded along the water’s edge hooting as the sets poured through and the howling offshore gradually backed off.

Just on low tide Impossibles started turning itself inside out. Ten medium sized waves steamed through, each carrying a charging child in its heart. Matt Hoy got one of the best.

The action was so intense, the surfing so on it, the waves so insane, I swear I felt religious. Vetea David dropped in on some guy and both of them got covered and both the fuckers came out. It was pretty damn hot. Fitz pulled in again on the very next set. It was a l-o-n-g one and he was coming out until Poto dropped in again, on his master. And then he got a filthy barrel on the same wave.

Fitz was obviously dirty with his big Tahitian protege. Back out the back Poto explained to his boss that he didn’t think he was going to make it. Fitz’s reply was probably to be expected. He said: “Of course I was bloody coming out. What do they call me?” Poto’s reply, pretty quickly, wasn’t expected. He said: “Sultan of Slow?”

Fitz finally came in after four hours. He was grinning so widely I thought his chin was going to split. I couldn’t help but compliment him on his performance. The broadening midrift arched majestically forward as he charged off the bottom, big roundhouses and snapbacks, the puffed cheeks and unblinking eyes, the epitome of concentration and commitment.

I know the guy is a legend, but frankly I’ve always had trouble handling his ego. After watching Fitz over a couple of days I’ve got to admit I was moved, impressed and even stoked. As he said: “It’s always good to let the groms know there is another way to surf.”

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The post Tracks Flashbacks: The J-Bay Event Which The ASP Barred Its Surfers From Competing In appeared first on Tracks Magazine.

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As The Soul Flies

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Maybe you have a fleeting memory of Sam Yoon from his celebrated cameo in Andrew Kidman’s film ‘spirit of akasha’? Or perhaps you were at Kirra one time and hooted a supple-limbed natural-footer spearing through muscular, eight-foot tubes on a 7’10” fish he’d crafted.

Or maybe your daily Instagram scroll was halted by the image of a surfer crouched in a warrior stance, taking a direct line at light-bending speed. A ‘Flying Soul’ as his handle suggests. It’s also possible you have your own personal anecdote about Sam, after your paths crossed in some place where a hefty swell was colliding with a challenging outer reef. It could have been Hawaii, J-Bay, Sri Lanka, Ireland, Japan, Mauritius, Tasmania or Morocco… There’s not many places on the map, with a holding coastline he hasn’t been.

However, it’s more than likely you’ve never heard of Sam or his distinctive, super-sized twin fins, and to be honest he’s just fine with that Sam Yoon’s family immigrated to Australia from South Korea in the late 80s when he was 11. His dad had run a successful car-wrecking business in Korea but was convinced a better way of life beckoned on the sun-kissed shores of the so-called Lucky Country. Initially, the Yoons landed in Sydney, where Sam went to school at Turramurra High in the city’s leafy northern suburbs. A tossed pearl of wisdom from a geography teacher was probably the most important thing he took from his education. “She always said to us, go travel around the world. But she strongly suggested to travel Australia too.”

Over the phone, Sam speaks in a mellifluous accent that somehow folds his Korean roots into Hawaiian pigeon and Australian twang. He mentions another light-bulb moment from his youth. “One thing I realised was when I got my driver’s license. I feel all the traffic lights in Sydney. And then I was thinking to myself how many hours I’m gonna spend my whole life waiting for the lights to go green, you know?

At age 16 Sam decided to run the lights. It was 1993 when he left home and moved to Queensland’s Gold Coast. After landing a job at a duty-free shop in Surfers Paradise, he fell in with a handful of surf-mad Japanese guys. The crew’s obsessive devotion was infectious and Sam was soon palming 50 bucks to one of his new friends for a 6’3″ Christian Fletcher model, Nev. “It wasn’t long before I was doing four rounds a day,” recalls Sam of his surfing honeymoon.

Six months after landing on the Gold Coast, Sam was on a plane to Indonesia. It would be the beginning of a decade-long surfing odyssey. Sam could fill an anthology with his travel anecdotes, but some experiences were obviously a little more transcendent than others.’

After a trip to North Korea to explore his roots, Sam returned to the Gold Coast and soon after resigned from his job. He’d decided to take the advice of his high school geography teacher and explore Australia before adding any further stamps to his passport. Fortunately, Sam had also met a young, Japanese girl named Ecco who shared his sense of wanderlust. Together they bought a car, turned their backs on the Gold Coast’s high-rise forest and set about traversing the wide brown Land Down Under. Sam says his most vivid memory of that trip was arriving at Cactus in South Australia after spending several days flanked by nothing but red earth in the vast, inland desert. “It’s a bit of, you know, off-road track to get to the beach… and then you see the lines… I think about it now, it would have been like, maybe 17,18 seconds period, and would have been like maybe 12-14-foot and so Cactus was almost too big. Caves, the one that peaks right out the front, was real proper. The whole set-up looked like the Rip Curl Search. Picture perfect.”

At Cactus, Sam and Ecco surfed and fished for days on end. By night they would share food with their fellow travellers and sit around giant fire pits, talking story on the 20-buck, used couches that had been hauled into the campsite. Later they would fall asleep to the sound of the clockwork offshore, taking comfort in the auspicious wind that would groom the waves by the time they woke.

Sam now had what he wanted, an Australian frame of reference against which his other trips might be measured.

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The post Sam Yoon shows us that we can always choose Surfing appeared first on Tracks Magazine.

***

Antarctica has a distinct but very limited appeal as a surf destination. On the plus side it’s in the middle of the Southern Ocean, has more coastline than Australia, friendly Locals (Penguins) and it just screams super-fucking-crazy-adventure.

Surf-wise it’s still largely unknown. If you want to follow the intrepid footsteps of a surf pioneer like Peter Troy, Antarctica offers a clean white sheet. Sure it gets hysterically cold but nearly freezing to death is good for the mind, body and soul, according to the Iceman, Wim Hoff.

Ok, so you’ve made your decision. You’re going to Antarctica. Puff that chest out and grow a beard because very few humans even make it to this point. You now have three options. And a beard! You can depart from southern Chile and cross the notorious Drake Passage on a very expensive cruise ship. Or you can fly to the military base on King George Island and join a very expensive cruise ship there. Once on board you’ll have between seven and 30 days exploring the frozen continent, weather depending.

Unfortunately, you definitely can’t take a surfboard. Even if you managed to smuggle an inflatable craft onboard, you wouldn’t be able to just jump overboard and paddle to a little iceberg left. Antarctic operators follow very strict landing protocols and while some offer heli-skiing, and even scuba diving no one does surfing. So you have one option if you want to surf the frozen continent. You need a friend with a yacht and a wild streak.

Happily, you have to be a little crazy to own a yacht so you’re really just looking for a yacht. If its owner is recently divorced, unemployed, drinks too much, has a beard like Barton Lynch, or a glass eye then perfect. You’re set. Pack fishing rods, puffer jackets and heaps of those delicious Cup a Soups. Depart from your local harbour on a flow tide and follow the stars due south. Or use the satnav if you’re a bit of a wuss.

Allow two weeks to reach the ice. You will be busy throwing up most of the way but when you’re not it’s a good time to really research this whole Antarctica thing. Books about polar exploration will put hairs on your chest. Scott, Amundsen, Mawson, Hurley, Wild… these are your boys. Learn from them. How to cook penguin liver. What to do when your boat is crushed to splinters by ice. Upbeat jokes to share when your teeth shatter and your piss freezes. The Worst Journey in the World is a good one.

Let’s assume you get cold feet (you will) but still make it. Where do you start looking for waves at the frozen end of the earth? The Antarctic Peninsula is probably your best bet. South Pacific lows push in west swells and there are endless bays and islands to refract and refine. Unfortunately, the region’s icy katabatic winds are often so whippy they can out-blast hurricanes. Your first and lasting priority will be finding sheltered bays so your yacht doesn’t get smashed to bits and you don’t, you know, die.

Your best chance at riding something with a bit of size and power will probably be an iceberg wave. These occur when a large ice-cliff calves off a huge chunk of frozen water, which then creates a very random tidal wave. Think of it as a God taking a dump and you riding the resulting splash- back if you’re into religious fables. To catch an ice-splash you need to simply find an ice-cliff and wait for God or global warming to show up. It might take 30 minutes or 30 years.

To summarise, you will need time, luck, a yacht, warm socks, some books and an endless supply of Cup a Soups if you want to try and find rideable waves in Antarctica. Windows of opportunity will open for a few hours and then clamp shut for years. You won’t even get bragging rights because Ramon Navarro has already been down there and towed into a handful of stunningly bad ice waves. If you do go, you will be pushed beyond your breaking point and confront the question all modern-day explorers ask of themselves: why didn’t I just go to Bali?

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Issue 590 is on stands now, available for purchase online or click here to find sub options and read more features like this in Tracks Premium.

The post Antarctica: The Last Crusade appeared first on Tracks Magazine.

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A criminal code banning pre-marital sex and cohabitation was passed by Indonesia’s Parliament at the end of last year. Although some later clarification indicated the law wouldn’t be enforced against international visitors, will a move so starkly conservative End up altering the vivacious fabric of the free-spirited destination? Here’s a collection Of thoughts from a writer based in Asia, and some locals, tourists and expats alike.

A perky blonde shimmers under the midday sun at the beach, her noticeably itty-bitty bikini catching stares as she takes momentary dips in the Canggu shoreline to cool off. Before long, the back and forth she’s been doing between her towel and the ocean has captured the attention of one of the locals who just caught his last wave of the day. They make small talk, see each other again, and again… things evolve naturally, as they so often do. But, a twinge of anxiety runs through them every time they meet, slowly they begin scheduling their rendezvous to avoid prying eyes.

An old-timer cruises the streets of Kuta, finding a local female comrade for his late- night escapades, which involve hollering at sports bars, reminiscing about his glory days and knocking back Bintangs. Without sharing the finer details, they know the further nuances of their evening together. But, more than ever, they keep their trans- action under wraps, shrouded in secrecy and well away from any questionable gazes.

A couple pencils in a well overdue tropical holiday, the anticipation of some alone time under the sun leaves them giddy with excitement. Although besotted with one another, their relationship hasn’t made it down the aisle yet. They’re young and the pressure for couples to marry is not what it once was so it’s not at the forefront of their to-do list. However, the distinct absence of wedding bands, and their public displays of affection don’t go unnoticed at the hotel’s check-in counter, making it ever so obvious that before long they’ll be testing the sturdiness of every surface in their villa.

These are scenarios played out daily in the Bali synonymous with beaches, bikinis, and boozed shenanigans – but has the liberal bohemian paradise become some- where you’ll now have to think twice about getting your kicks, or so it seemed for a hot minute. That’s at least what the media circus that had the world in a chokehold last December had you believing.

The end of 2022 saw Indonesia’s parliament approve a new criminal code, banning everyone in the country from partaking in extramarital sex, a law that would apply equally to locals and foreigners alike, including tourists visiting the country. However, two weeks later, after a snowball of international scrutiny, tourism officials declared “tourists and foreign nationals living in Indonesia will be exempt.”

“I did think it was blown way out of proportion, it came up a few years ago as well, but the media must have had bigger news at the time to push,” suggested Aussie businessman Levi Brown, while sipping on his early morning espresso. Levi, who owns Fresh Boy, a surf-vibe açai shack and shop in the heart of Canggu, shared my surprise at just how much coverage the story got in the global media cycle.

Brice Reavaille, an avid French surfer who’s lived in Bali for the past nine years agreed with the sentiment, “I didn’t pay attention to it (the law) until international media communication went so viral. The sensationalism definitely got the better of the press.” Meanwhile, locals and expats seemed to be in solidarity on the subject, “I think it’s a bit of an exaggeration, causing panic among the ones living here, and the tourists,” commented Annisa Devianda with a chuckle. Annisa recently made the move from Jakarta to Bali and was getting used to the amount of ‘bule’ she had to deal with on an average day.

Few were aware that sex outside of marriage was already banned prior to the new law’s introduction. However, it was less than regularly enforced, mainly because the old law defined adultery as ‘sex between a married man and someone who was not his wife’, whereas the new law outlaws all sex outside of marriage, including that between unmarried couples. Under the new legislation the jail term also increased marginally from nine months to ‘up to one year’

“I think it was reported in a way that that implied it was more applicable to international tourists than it actually is,” commented Josie May, a Sydney local who makes the trip to Bali every few months when the swell picks up. “Headlines may have led tourists and expats to believe they could end up in prison for having a screw outside of marriage,” she continues.

The criminal code has also ushered in a new ban, that’ll see six months in jail for unmarried couples caught living together.

Some see it as concerning that the change in laws comes in lockstep with the rise of religious conservatism within the Muslim- majority country. Historically Bali has avoided enforcing the harsher Muslim laws by distinguishing itself as a predominately Hindu island.

I asked Levi if he believed more conservative laws may follow, “I think, for Java and other Indonesian islands with a majority population Muslim outlook, it’s looking that way. There’s a lot of foreign investment from wealthier Muslim countries pushing this motion forward so let’s wait and see. Hopefully I’m married before then!”

Surfers who’ve made trips to some of Indonesia’s less tourist-centric islands such as Sumbawa, Java and Sumatra will already be privy to the more Islamic demographic that makes up the wider country. And while experiencing the shift in cultural customs is one of the wonderful parts of travelling outside of Bali, the implementation of more conservative laws could mean couples are more cautious and inhibited when travelling through smaller more traditionalistic communities.

Unsurprisingly, the unlikely passing of the criminal code sent the world into a frenzy; and simultaneously managed to educate the majority of Americans that Bali does actually reside in Indonesia.

Although the law won’t come to fruition for another three years, and with that the likely chances of this affecting Westerners being incredibly slim; the frontal impression and stereotype it’s leaving with the wider tourist economy is one of a less free and easy tropical paradise.

“I definitely believe this’ll impact people coming to Bali, especially those who follow the news they’re reading or watching blindly; which for us it a bit sad as Indonesia is just barely recovering from the pandemic. Also, this isn’t the first time it’s happened, a few years back it was wrongly reported that a law banning alcohol would come into effect,” indicated Brice.

Add into the mix the relaxing of legislation a hop-skip-and-a-jump away in Thailand and their unexpected decriminalisation of marijuana, and a wide proportion of Bali residents are rightly spooked that this’ll lead to a drop off in holidaymakers, in a country that pre-pandemic welcomed approximately 16 million tourists a year. Levi agreed, “I think the regulars to Bali won’t be fazed, but newcomers will definitely take alternatives like Thailand, the Philippines or Sri Lanka.”

In the same way your mind convinces your self that the kelp shadow swaying under the break could very well be a White Pointer, the fear of the new law is there, even though the threat is really just some overgrown seaweed. Realistically a typical holiday in Bali under the new laws won’t land you any time in Kerobokan jail, but you may feel a hint more uncomfortable, maybe enough to make you question just how much you like that girl you met at the bar an hour ago. As Levi joked, “No one wants to end up in jail abroad for a sneaky one night stand.”

The intricate fabric that meshes the vibrant domestic community with the revolving door of Westerners, many of whom are Australian, could however be in the firing line. The law is enacted when a local friend or family member reports on said adulterous behaviour, thus the characteristic union between the two nations, which has produced many an incredible surfer such as Bronson Meydi and Lee Wilson, could very well cease to exist under a weighty cloud of fear.

But, as is always the case, as quickly as the law was thrust into the media, it was fizzled out of the public’s collective conscious, leaving the whole thing feeling like a very odd fever dream. “Perhaps the headlines have changed a perception or two of Bali, but I think that mainly applies to people who have never visited,” noted Josie while cocking a cheeky smile. “I don’t think it’ll change the views of the majority of people who’ve come before.”

That said, with three more years of legislation to be passed before the law can be enforced, it may be time to get your Indo holidays in while you can still be that little bit more liberal and adventurous. For now, blonde bombshells and local chargers can bonk away, young couples can check into hotels with unadulterated glee, and Kuta can continue being, well Kuta.

Sun, surf and… celibacy? Doesn’t sound like Bali and probably never will be.

Issue 590 is on stands now, available for purchase online or click here to find sub options and read more features like this in Tracks Premium.

The post Sun, Surf & Celibacy appeared first on Tracks Magazine.

A few hundred metres offshore, a left hander wedges up on the kelp covered reef (pictured above).  It stands up as a four foot peak, wrapping hard into itself, almost a full 90 degrees, growing into an angry triple-lipped eight footer.  It sends out a fire-hose spit into the channel, showering four jetskis.  The end section clamps shut.  The wave gurgles onto an exposed rock shelf. 

“Look’s pretty heavy, huh,” says Nathan.

Nathan is here on his Australian slab tour, filming for his vlog.  He’s booked a one-way ticket, and reckons he’ll hang round for the best part of late autumn, chasing the biggest, heaviest waves the country has to offer.  

“It’s kind of the way I like to travel,” he says.  “Just leave it open ended.  See what the waves do.  See where crew reckon will be good and just kind of go off that.”

Standing around Nathan and Kipp are a crew of groms, some of them bodyboarders, the others tow-surfers whose mates are out there on the skis.  One of the groms offers Kipp his inflatable suit.

“My Mum would kill me if she knew I wasn’t wearing this.  You can use it if you want, but,” he says. 

At some places on this Southern Australian coastline, Kipp and Nathan, with his GoPro and cameraman, Zoard, might not be met with such a friendly reception.  But it’s hard to be hostile to Nathan; he’s smiling, shaking everyone’s hand, and he’s aware of the importance of treading lightly. 

“There are some places we just don’t go.  I get the crew who live there want to protect those waves, and that’s cool.  I respect that.  I don’t want to blow anything up.”

A bodyboarder, Stoney, is the first to paddle out.  He has flown down from the Sunny Coast, where he works as a concreter, for this swell.  He lives for the death-defying thrill of stuffing his shaved, tattooed melon into twelve-foot glory holes.  At these underground slabs all around Australia you’ll find boogers like Stoney, ruling the peak and pushing the limits of what is actually rideable.

In the line-up, four jetskis idle in the channel.  Jerome Sahyoun and Dylan Longbottom are one team, trying to get a read on the waves. On the other three skis are local tow-surfers: Sammy Logan, Jake Harman, Nathan Brookes. 

The boys have paid their dues in fuel money and drowned jet skis and heavy wipeouts getting to know this place, but they’re still stoked share it with a small crew of out-of-town pros.      

“It’s pretty cool to have the boys here and validate what we’ve always known about this place,” says Jake.

Tim Bonython is also here filming for his Big Wave Project, and he compares the intensity of this wave with some of the heaviest in the world.  Every now and then, a big set breaks wide and closes out the channel, sending the skis scrambling out to sea.

“It’s super scary sitting on the ski getting the shot.  On par with the intensity at Nazare.  The waves are incredible though.  Seriously, a Teahupoo style wave right here in Australia.”

The wave is tricky to read and terrifying to paddle.  The best ones break deep on the reef and almost look like a closeout.  With all the water drawing off the reef and up the face, you can see the shallow kelp-covered rocks beneath you.

Kipp paddles the wave of the day, taking off deep on an eight-footer, setting his line and pulling in, hands free and styling, flying out into the channel with the spit, everyone hooting and screaming. 

“I’ve seen him here maybe 10, 15 times,” says Jake.  “A heap of those times he’s been here he’s been skunked, struggled to get a good read on it and get tubed.  It’s just one of those waves.  You really have to earn it.” 

Dylan backdoors a tow bomb, pulling in deep behind the section, completely disappearing, and riding over the foam ball and out into the channel. 

After four hours, the rising tide swallows the swell and disappears the chip-in entry.  The paddle surfers head for the beach, knowing they are in for another two days of this. 

Nathan rode only one big tube early in the session, and he seems kinda bummed he couldn’t find the wave he really wanted.  For him, this is work.  He’s studied this place, watched videos of it, and he has an expectation of himself to perform.    

“Some waves are easy, you can figure them out straight away.  Others take a bit of time.  This one you definitely have to put a bit of time in.”

“You gotta be real selective.  There were probably only four to six waves all day that were really the ones.  I shoulda sat and waited.  I picked a heap of duds, and fell on a few.”

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Kipp, meanwhile, is stoked, the time and effort he has put into this place finally paying off.  But still, he questions whether he could have been deeper, could have done more on his best wave.

“It’s such a hard wave,” he says.

“It bends back on itself so hard.  It’s hard to wipe off speed and get deep.  I dunno, maybe I could have got deeper.  That’s surfing though, I guess.  It always just keeps you coming back for more.”

The post Nathan Florence’s OZ Slab Tour – Behind the Scenes appeared first on Tracks Magazine.

Issue 588 is on stands now, available for purchase online or click here to find sub options and read the full article on Tracks Premium.

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For Australian surfers Hawaii was also a chance to save face. Our reputation as a revered surfing nation was on the line after the drubbing the team copped at the famously loose 1972 World Surfing Championships, held earlier in the year in San Diego. It would prove to be the last of its kind presented by the International Surfing Federation (ISF). Despite PT’s(Peter Townend’s) gallant third-place effort at Ocean Beach, the Hawaiians had claimed both the men’s & women’s World Titles. JimmyBlears (the son of famous wrestler and surfing commentator, Lord James Tally-Ho Blears)had secured a controversial victory over David Nuuhiwa while Honolulu’s goofy-foot sensation, Sharron Weber, snatched victory from the east coast’s Mary Jayne Hayes. Up and coming Hawaiian Juniors Larry Bertlemann(fourth) and 14-year-old Michael Ho (fifth) were the youngest competitors in the open men’s final, providing an exciting glimpse into the auspicious future of Hawaiian surfing.

The tide was turning in the direction of professional surfing in the wake of the helter-skelter 1972 World Titles event. In his report on the contest, Drew Kampion had used the loaded title ‘A Nine-Day Acid Trip’. The phrase ‘snowing in the hotel rooms’ was also employed with apparent metaphorical punch.Writing for Tracks, Rolling Stone journalist John Grissim summed up the hedonistic atmosphere in the following paragraph.

“It was hard to escape the impression by the end of the second day that things were slowly getting out of control… Now very few of the Peruvians spoke English but this minor social handicap was nothing that couldn’t be remedied by copious amounts of ready cash which enabled them to provide gallons of Chivas Regal Scotch Whisky and enormous quantities of other exotic refreshments which were being drunk, smoked and snorted as if there were no tomorrow.”

Further problems with sponsorship and poor organising, prompted some to dub the San Diego contest a‘fiasco’ that heralded the collapse of amateur surfing.

All eyes turned to Hawaii and the promise of better waves, hefty prize money and promoters who had their act together. George Downing, Fred Hemmings, Randy Rarrick, and Bernie Baker were in charge of ushering in a new era of professional surfing. At the time it seemed apt that the transformation of the sport was being spearheaded from a Polynesian base, where surfing had its roots.

The Makaha International Championships had claimed top billing rights in the 50s and 60s. Mean-while, the first Duke Kahanamoku invitational was established in 1965, featuring prize money, and was followed up by the Smirnoff in 1970. In1972, big wave Hawaiian pioneer, George Downing, developed a third event,The Hang Ten, which featured a new scoring system known as ‘objective scoring’. In essence it was a points for manoeuvers criteria.

Without ratings and global seedings, entries into these events were invitational and based on either reputation, or, in the case of the Duke, there was a secret poll to determine selection.

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Issue 588 is on stands now, available for purchase online or click here to find sub options and read the full article on Tracks Premium.

The post TRACKS FLASHBACKS: AUSSIES TAKING ON THE NORTH SHORE IN 72 appeared first on Tracks Magazine.

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Why Samoa? It’s a question that follows me around like a stray dog when I spend a week exploring the islands. The primary concern, however, is: Where are all the waves hiding?

Samoa has always felt a bit shy and enigmatic to me. I’ve heard many and varied reports about the waves. One friend came over for two weeks and left after five days frustrated and surfless. Another mate lived here, worked as a surf guide, banked lifetime barrels, fell in love and married into Samoa. The waves can get really good but are hard to reach and pretty short and slabby, I gathered. Take a board but be prepared to not use it, I was told. So, I arrive with expectations in check and mind wide open. And a 6’2”.

I’m on the first tourist flight into Apia after two pandemic-blighted years and the welcome mat stretches to the plane. Before I even depart I hear singing and sense happy-clappy vibes. There’s a string band strumming and a line of dancers sashay fluidly, welcoming us like royalty. A beaming dancer lassos me with a fragrant lei and I’m spirited to the customs room where another troupe perform. All airport arrivals should be this festive. A third group dance beside the baggage carousel and there are tears and hugs all round. You get the feeling social distancing is a very foreign concept here in Samoa.

I spend my first day site-seeing, shedding first-world stress and staring at the fringing reefs out on the horizon. It looks like there might be waves peeling through some of the passes but it’s too distant to know and too far to paddle. I get close to Salani Resort, knowing it’s directly in front of one of Samoa’s best waves but it’s closed, and the trade winds scour the lagoon unpromisingly. I’m told that Neil Lumsden from Manoa Tours would love to take me surfing if he wasn’t currently off island. Which is a blessing in disguise because that’s how I meet his local understudy, the legendary Manu.

Manu is about as hardcore as you can get but I don’t know that when he rocks up to our meeting fale (house) in an old clunker van with his bodyboard in the back. Tall and tatted he’s in a black Eddie Aikau shirt and sports a dread-locked rat’s tail that would impress a Dothraki horse lord. “See that wave out there,” he says pointing at the horizon, seconds after shaking my hand. “That’s barrelling today, offshore.”

“How big?” I ask, snapping to attention. He does some calculations – three foot west at 16seconds –two and half foot but “strong swell, powerful”. Manu tells me he hasn’t surfed for weeks. No tourists and killer petrol prices have made ocean play off limits. We are both feeling fortunate about crossing paths and sharing this bluebird day. I load my board in the back next to a Johnson outboard, which tilts across a bench seat. Up in front I’m shin-deep in plastic bottles and assorted petro-chemical debris. Recycling, Samoa style. Manu apologies but I can barely hear him over the screeching fan belt. We’re off.

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Issue 588 is on stands now, available for purchase online or click here to find sub options and read the full article on Tracks Premium.

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