In the abyss, fathoms deep with buck-eyed teeth and cartilaginous stealth they lurk. Loitering around the dog-eared corners of our nightmares are perfect instruments of submarine terrorism. Forget Nile crocs the size of Land Cruisers, or grumpy Puff Adders infused with large doses of cytotoxic inertia. We surfers are hardwired to relegate all other fatal mishaps to that of a mozzie bite when encountering a very large fish of the order Selachii.
Sharks have been around for a long time, most likely somewhere in the region of 450 million years. Evolution gave up fine-tuning their hydrodynamic efficiency some 100 million years ago, and in turn instilled in ocean going humans a primal fear that swamps all rational thought with the merest flicker of movement beneath the late afternoon glass. Even the Great White’s latin name, “Carcharodon carcharias” cuts through modern English like a rusty razorblade.
We suppress our fears, taking comfort in the reams of musty stats that declare the chances of perishing in an aviation disaster far more likely than becoming a human sushi roll at some perfecto point or suburban surfing nursery. Tabloid headlines and fear mongering are best ignored. Somehow fear always becomes that missing jigsaw piece, even when paddling out at a postcard beachie in the middle of summer on a pushing tide? Glassy A-Frames perfumed by sunscreen and wax in the mid-morning offshore are simply too idyllic for a fishy bogeyman. Cousin Johnny and the underwater Mafioso don’t exist unless you add them as sinister variables to your sublime equation. Then factor in treknet fisherman, shark cage operators or river mouths spewing muddy human detritus and your summery dream will end in one merciless blur of spray and thrashing, turning the sea to Pinotage and death.
Marine biologists, shark aficionados, crackpot journos and surfers all have their infallible opinions, stoking the fear in some cases with great glee. Shark attacks sell newspapers; humans feast on fear, gorging themselves like a crazed cabal of Blue Pointers. 100 million sharks are “harvested” annually in comparison to approximately 10 human fatalities. Even when faced with these incongruous numbers, deep within mankind’s genetic encoding there’s an instinctual fear that’s not going to capitulate to rational thought anytime soon.
Nonetheless it’s somewhat satisfying knowing there’s an equaliser patrolling our watery playground, an animal of almost mythic proportions that can shove us humans a good few links down the corroded food chain. No amount of surfista bravado or inked-up testosterone can square up to “Carcharodon carcharias”. I’d love to see a local bully “take it to the beach” with a hungry Raggie or tetchy Zambezi. It’s a shame a shark’s “Ampullae of Lorenzini” (sensory receptors) cannot differentiate between decent folk and 1st grade dipsticks.
So how can we as surfers protect ourselves from ending up as a briny crouton? “Nuke-em-good” knee-jerk reactions including shark nets, shotguns, spear guns and diving knives are a medieval waste of time. However, some time back the Natal Sharks board developed a device that’s best described as battery operated “Kryptonite” for sharks. It would eventually evolve into a commercially viable Australian product known as the Shark Shield™. The electrical impulse emitted by the device is effective up to 6m, and acts on the Ampullae of Lorenzini located on the snout of a predator shark. When a shark nears the electric field of a Shark Shield it experiences extreme discomfort and involuntary muscle spasms, immediately dissuading the fish from any further investigation.
New surfing vistas are now opening up for those surfers broad-minded enough to don a Shark Shield and paddle out with peace of mind. However, surfers are at times a narrow-minded tribe, perhaps blinkered to common sense by excessive doses of sunlight dancing on a dappled ocean. Ironically, these very surfers are convinced that they are beacons of free-thought and open mindedness, yet when it comes to embracing a scientifically proven device that deters our grey-suited friends, almost 90% of surfers I’ve chatted to cave into bullish conservativism. They suddenly squint into the middle distance and with all the wisdom of an Oxford don revert to urban myths about Shark Shields attracting ravenous schools of man-eaters. The wheel barrow loads of bullshit that spews forth from these armchair experts, and in some cases “highly respected” surfers, is on par with telly evangelists, African dictators and The Spanish Inquisition.
Yarns of Great Whites gulping down Shark Shields like jelly tots, and becoming “immune” to the device’s three-dimensional electrical impulse are no more than self-deception and technophobia in the wake of a revolutionary solution. Another favourite predestination of surfers is, “if it’s my time to go, then so be it”. I wonder if one of these dream-catching “fatalists” would saunter unprotected through the Kruger National Park with as much reckless abandon? Surfers reacted in much the same way to the invention of “gookcord”, leg rope or leash, but it turned out to be an indispensable surfing accessory in the long term.
As for the Shark Shield there’s no denying it’s an expensive piece of kit, but so were Flat screen TVs when they first flickered onto the market. If you surf a “sharky” spot, a fully charged device will give you at the very least, 4 to 5 hours of peace of mind. I’ve paddled out at a number of spots wearing my Shark Shield only to be scoffed at, or simply given a side-ways glance dripping with disdain and betrayal. Do I care; unequivocally not? It takes a couple of sessions to get used to the device, but it won’t affect your overall freedom in the water. Most detractors often bemoan the device as bulky and cumbersome, but then again they also like to think their surfing is on par with Mick or Kelly.
Yes, a Shark Shield is a man-made device and prone to possible malfunction from excessive abuse. If you don’t turn the device on it will not work, and more importantly, it needs to be rinsed-off and re-charged after every session. Perhaps that’s a bit too much to ask for some, considering the mountains of neoprene involved in ongoing micro-biological experiments in the back of bakkies and boots across the land.
Shark Shields come in two distinct types. One version allows for the battery pack to be fitted, by means of a base-plate to the tail of your board. The other type is secured to your ankle much like a leash. In both cases the electrode can double as a leash.
Interestingly enough, competitive surfers were protected by three battery operated Shark Shield devices attached to buoys at the backline of Nahoon Reef during the Mr Price Open surfing championships in 2009. Lifeguards merely replaced the Shark Shield batteries every four hours offering protection for surfers during the event. Global Surf News even reported that Surfing South Africa (SSA) was considering using Shark Shields at other surfing competitions in the future. It’s a labour intensive and expensive undertaking, but these tentative steps offer a life-saving solution that can be streamlined in the future.
Shark Shields are used by the Australian Special Forces, South African Navy, US Coast Guard and is also approved by NATO. I’ve watched countless videos online, chatted to commercial divers who swear by it and read detailed reports on the efficacy of the device. For me, it’s about peace of mind, and it happens to comes in the form of a Shark Shield when I paddle out at a high risk spot. As for the drive in my ’94 Toyota Corolla to my sharky bay, well that’s another story…
Monday, September 20, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
A Soundtrack for the Ride - Surfing & Music
“The hills are alive with the sound of music,
With songs they have sung for a thousand years.
The hills fill my heart with the sound of music.
My heart wants to sing every song it hears.”
The Sound of Music - 1965
You’ve reached the backline, your arms feel like linguini and your brain is looping a tune that refuses to budge. Again and again the chorus dances circles around that numb spot in your head. Bumps on the horizon hit the pause button, bringing a brief respite, but it’s not long before the bass line starts to throb, throwing jabs and uppercuts at 160 beats per minute against your cranium. Your ice-cream headache pounds in 2/4 time. You should have worn a hood, but that thought cross-fades into the ether as a perfect left wails your name to the strains of “that song” wedged between your Frontal and Parietal lobes.
Old Davy Jones has been rocking, jiving, rapping, swinging and getting jiggy to every style of music known to man and the odd alien visitor since humans first took to riding waves? The ocean is imbued with a natural sense of rhythm, and our tunes are a mere embellishment.
Half the fun of surfing is getting there, and what would our path to the beach be without a soundtrack? Music fuels our passion, anticipation and imagination, creating dreamscapes where we pull off impossible moves backed by a ditty of our choice. Our musical fingerprints are evident in the lines we draw or sometimes smudge across the waves we ride. Surfing and music are inextricable; from strumming ukuleles to spinning discs, it was love at first sight for surfers and music.
Our sport has attracted all sorts of musical charlatans and wannabe rockers, including some of the most cacophonous cowboys and tepid songsters imaginable. Perhaps the 90s and a 21st century groundswell of political correctness are to blame for the current dearth. Musical integrity spiralled out of control in the 90s into a yawing blur of white noise. Watch a 90s VHS surf movie and prepare for an aural epiphany of the worst kind. Embarrassing stuff, that’s best left to gather dust in a very dark corner next to that crystallised tub of neon zinc.
Surfing royalty, including style maestro Tom Curren and übermensch King Kelly have pottered about the hallowed halls rock stardom. His HRH Kelly teamed up with Pearl Jam frontman Eddie Vedder for a quid pro quo of skills. Curren’s “Light Becomes a Fire” and “Ocean Wide” are worth a listen; including eclectic hints of Country music and shades of John Mayer.
However, from here on a precipitous downhill awaits. Retro single fins, an unkempt Donovan Frankenreiter, Brushfire records and the saturated hues of 16mm analogue film presented surfers with the musical equivalent of the sedative benzodiazepine; Jack Johnson. It escapes me how Jackie boy, a respected North Shore surfer, conquered the genre and reduced the irreverent energy of surf music to a formulaic fireside warble.
Clearly Jack has applied the “safety through repetition” rule to his compositions providing his fan base with the essence of predictability. A post-pubescent music critic recently likened one of Captain Jack’s “variations of a theme” to a seminal moment in 20th century popular music, The Beach Boys “Pet Sounds” album. Sorry bru, but that’s like comparing a rubbery jelly baby to a sumptuous Chocolate Mousse.
If you’re a die-hard Jack fan give Israel Kamakawiwo a listen. Not unlike Jack, he strummed his way from the islands and is the unchallenged Eddie Van Halen of ukuleles. Sadly, Israel passed away in 1997 but his interpretation of “Somewhere of the Rainbow” is an unassuming classic.
Yes, post-surf fireside troubadours have their place, but those sensitive strummers, and there are legions of them out there, are galaxies apart from the raw vigour of a band like Midnight Oil. Peter Garrett and the Oils hailed from Sydney, and performed for the local surf community at Narrabeen and the Bondi Lifesaver Club. They were uncompromising, took no prisoners and spoke the same language as surfers. They gave us classics such as "Blue Sky Mine", “The Dead Heart” and “US Forces”. With the exception of the Prodigy, I’ve never experienced a more energetic live performance that captured surfing’s zeitgeist so aptly.
But therein lies the beauty of music and surfing; each to his own. Pinning a particular genre or style of music to surfing is absurd. Wave riding is far too mercurial an activity to be pigeonholed, and what would surfing be without the reverb of Dub, or the chainsaw scream of a classic Metal solo? Even Rap has its place; LL Cool J doesn’t surf but I can’t help imagine him tearing into the New Pier bowl, and perhaps a fisherman or two.
However, much like going SUPPING in a speedo, a few cautionary notes are in order. Avoid the pompous electro musings of Radiohead or bleating “bubblegum in your hair” sounds of the Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber. Listening to “musicians” of their ilk will lead to inevitable stylistic disaster in the water.
Yet surfers will continue to caress long point waves to the sublime art of Mozart, and tear onshore bowls apart to the dissonant genius of the Aphix Twins. From duct-taped Kombis swaying to a stretched cassette recording of LKJ’s “Forces of Victory” to Landcruisers with Blu-Ray players popping the latest bubblegum, it’s all about those spaces in between the notes and how they affect you; just you.
Yes, the hills are alive with the Sound of Music, but I somehow doubt you’ll be encountering Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp brood at the backline anytime soon. Now go surf!
With songs they have sung for a thousand years.
The hills fill my heart with the sound of music.
My heart wants to sing every song it hears.”
The Sound of Music - 1965
You’ve reached the backline, your arms feel like linguini and your brain is looping a tune that refuses to budge. Again and again the chorus dances circles around that numb spot in your head. Bumps on the horizon hit the pause button, bringing a brief respite, but it’s not long before the bass line starts to throb, throwing jabs and uppercuts at 160 beats per minute against your cranium. Your ice-cream headache pounds in 2/4 time. You should have worn a hood, but that thought cross-fades into the ether as a perfect left wails your name to the strains of “that song” wedged between your Frontal and Parietal lobes.
Old Davy Jones has been rocking, jiving, rapping, swinging and getting jiggy to every style of music known to man and the odd alien visitor since humans first took to riding waves? The ocean is imbued with a natural sense of rhythm, and our tunes are a mere embellishment.
Half the fun of surfing is getting there, and what would our path to the beach be without a soundtrack? Music fuels our passion, anticipation and imagination, creating dreamscapes where we pull off impossible moves backed by a ditty of our choice. Our musical fingerprints are evident in the lines we draw or sometimes smudge across the waves we ride. Surfing and music are inextricable; from strumming ukuleles to spinning discs, it was love at first sight for surfers and music.
Our sport has attracted all sorts of musical charlatans and wannabe rockers, including some of the most cacophonous cowboys and tepid songsters imaginable. Perhaps the 90s and a 21st century groundswell of political correctness are to blame for the current dearth. Musical integrity spiralled out of control in the 90s into a yawing blur of white noise. Watch a 90s VHS surf movie and prepare for an aural epiphany of the worst kind. Embarrassing stuff, that’s best left to gather dust in a very dark corner next to that crystallised tub of neon zinc.
Surfing royalty, including style maestro Tom Curren and übermensch King Kelly have pottered about the hallowed halls rock stardom. His HRH Kelly teamed up with Pearl Jam frontman Eddie Vedder for a quid pro quo of skills. Curren’s “Light Becomes a Fire” and “Ocean Wide” are worth a listen; including eclectic hints of Country music and shades of John Mayer.
However, from here on a precipitous downhill awaits. Retro single fins, an unkempt Donovan Frankenreiter, Brushfire records and the saturated hues of 16mm analogue film presented surfers with the musical equivalent of the sedative benzodiazepine; Jack Johnson. It escapes me how Jackie boy, a respected North Shore surfer, conquered the genre and reduced the irreverent energy of surf music to a formulaic fireside warble.
Clearly Jack has applied the “safety through repetition” rule to his compositions providing his fan base with the essence of predictability. A post-pubescent music critic recently likened one of Captain Jack’s “variations of a theme” to a seminal moment in 20th century popular music, The Beach Boys “Pet Sounds” album. Sorry bru, but that’s like comparing a rubbery jelly baby to a sumptuous Chocolate Mousse.
If you’re a die-hard Jack fan give Israel Kamakawiwo a listen. Not unlike Jack, he strummed his way from the islands and is the unchallenged Eddie Van Halen of ukuleles. Sadly, Israel passed away in 1997 but his interpretation of “Somewhere of the Rainbow” is an unassuming classic.
Yes, post-surf fireside troubadours have their place, but those sensitive strummers, and there are legions of them out there, are galaxies apart from the raw vigour of a band like Midnight Oil. Peter Garrett and the Oils hailed from Sydney, and performed for the local surf community at Narrabeen and the Bondi Lifesaver Club. They were uncompromising, took no prisoners and spoke the same language as surfers. They gave us classics such as "Blue Sky Mine", “The Dead Heart” and “US Forces”. With the exception of the Prodigy, I’ve never experienced a more energetic live performance that captured surfing’s zeitgeist so aptly.
But therein lies the beauty of music and surfing; each to his own. Pinning a particular genre or style of music to surfing is absurd. Wave riding is far too mercurial an activity to be pigeonholed, and what would surfing be without the reverb of Dub, or the chainsaw scream of a classic Metal solo? Even Rap has its place; LL Cool J doesn’t surf but I can’t help imagine him tearing into the New Pier bowl, and perhaps a fisherman or two.
However, much like going SUPPING in a speedo, a few cautionary notes are in order. Avoid the pompous electro musings of Radiohead or bleating “bubblegum in your hair” sounds of the Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber. Listening to “musicians” of their ilk will lead to inevitable stylistic disaster in the water.
Yet surfers will continue to caress long point waves to the sublime art of Mozart, and tear onshore bowls apart to the dissonant genius of the Aphix Twins. From duct-taped Kombis swaying to a stretched cassette recording of LKJ’s “Forces of Victory” to Landcruisers with Blu-Ray players popping the latest bubblegum, it’s all about those spaces in between the notes and how they affect you; just you.
Yes, the hills are alive with the Sound of Music, but I somehow doubt you’ll be encountering Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp brood at the backline anytime soon. Now go surf!
Friday, April 30, 2010
Photoshop Turns 20
Photoshop was conceived by the brothers, Thomas (a student) and John Knoll (an Industrial Light and Magic employee) in 1987 as part of a PhD thesis at the University of Michigan examining the processing of digital images. The first workable version of their project was named ImagePro (1988), before assuming the now ubiquitous title of Photoshop in 1989. Its humble commercial origins can be traced back to Barneyscan, a scanner manufacturer, which bundled the first 200 copies of Photoshop with one of their slide scanners. Adobe’s interest and subsequent purchase of the Knoll brothers’ dainty image editor resulted in the first incarnation of the application being released on the 10th of February 1990, a whole two decades ago.
Photoshop has grown into a colossus in the image editing landscape, cutting a swath through the many pretenders to the throne. Its native file format, the .PSD has become immortal; and the word “Photoshop” has entered the lexicon of contemporary language. “Shopping” or “to shop” has taken on a new meaning for 21st century digeratti. Photoshop 1.0 was a rudimentary digital darkroom but everything changed at a fundamental level with the introduction of Layers in Photoshop 3.0 (1994). The ability to create complex non-destructive artworks has been a hallmark of the application. It has changed the way creatives think, interact and create. In fact, one might argue that Layers single-handedly transformed the creative process at a conceptual and functional level, allowing for a kaleidoscope of solutions with minimal effort.
Photoshop 5.0 presented us with colour management, editable type, the ‘History Palette” and the mostly useless ImageReady. Once ImageReady had withered, Adobe acknowledged the World Wide Web ‘from within’ with its “Save for Web” feature in version 5.5. ‘Shoppers’ were delighted, and the new millennium release of version 6.0 marked the apogee of Photoshop. One question remains; have the subsequent additions, application enhancements and integration with other family members really changed the way we work? Certainly, but only to within a pixel’s width of the average users needs. Photoshop’s CS incarnations are slick, highly sophisticated and enjoy productive conversations with siblings, but most of us would be satisfied with version 6.0’s suite of features.
However, Photoshop has such an all encompassing cultish presence within creative territories that we all feel inextricably seduced by the need to embrace future developments, despite having no real requirement for many of the shiny new tools that glitter by the light of our LCDs. Competitors have employed excellent reconnaissance and have had many years to draw on a wealth of tried and tested Photoshop innovations. Interestingly, Photoshop presently faces increased pressure on both flanks, including usurpers from within such as the budget priced Photoshop Elements, and more user specific solutions such as Adobe Photoshop Lightroom.
64-Bit support and seamless Creative Suite integration are Adobe’s more recent gifts to the faithful, but version centric Camera Raw support is unforgivable. CS5 has just been launched and it will be a huge success. Yes, it will undoubtedly converse effortlessly with other Adobe apps and include a number of noteworthy but ultimately unnecessary enhancements. Photoshop is here to stay; but it’s no longer the passionate revolutionary of yore, but a somewhat more mature and sedate individual. An awesome individual nonetheless!
Photoshop has grown into a colossus in the image editing landscape, cutting a swath through the many pretenders to the throne. Its native file format, the .PSD has become immortal; and the word “Photoshop” has entered the lexicon of contemporary language. “Shopping” or “to shop” has taken on a new meaning for 21st century digeratti. Photoshop 1.0 was a rudimentary digital darkroom but everything changed at a fundamental level with the introduction of Layers in Photoshop 3.0 (1994). The ability to create complex non-destructive artworks has been a hallmark of the application. It has changed the way creatives think, interact and create. In fact, one might argue that Layers single-handedly transformed the creative process at a conceptual and functional level, allowing for a kaleidoscope of solutions with minimal effort.
Photoshop 5.0 presented us with colour management, editable type, the ‘History Palette” and the mostly useless ImageReady. Once ImageReady had withered, Adobe acknowledged the World Wide Web ‘from within’ with its “Save for Web” feature in version 5.5. ‘Shoppers’ were delighted, and the new millennium release of version 6.0 marked the apogee of Photoshop. One question remains; have the subsequent additions, application enhancements and integration with other family members really changed the way we work? Certainly, but only to within a pixel’s width of the average users needs. Photoshop’s CS incarnations are slick, highly sophisticated and enjoy productive conversations with siblings, but most of us would be satisfied with version 6.0’s suite of features.
However, Photoshop has such an all encompassing cultish presence within creative territories that we all feel inextricably seduced by the need to embrace future developments, despite having no real requirement for many of the shiny new tools that glitter by the light of our LCDs. Competitors have employed excellent reconnaissance and have had many years to draw on a wealth of tried and tested Photoshop innovations. Interestingly, Photoshop presently faces increased pressure on both flanks, including usurpers from within such as the budget priced Photoshop Elements, and more user specific solutions such as Adobe Photoshop Lightroom.
64-Bit support and seamless Creative Suite integration are Adobe’s more recent gifts to the faithful, but version centric Camera Raw support is unforgivable. CS5 has just been launched and it will be a huge success. Yes, it will undoubtedly converse effortlessly with other Adobe apps and include a number of noteworthy but ultimately unnecessary enhancements. Photoshop is here to stay; but it’s no longer the passionate revolutionary of yore, but a somewhat more mature and sedate individual. An awesome individual nonetheless!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Supersize my Waves!
Ah, those men who ride mountains, those intrepid neoprened warriors on fibreglass steeds, slaying 50 foot dragons that breathe salty mist and foamy death.
Ah, those merry few, that 'Band of Brothers' who epitomise the essence of a waterman's courage (served with a large dollop of insanity).
Words tend to wither when attempting to fathom those brave souls who paddle or are slingshot into tempestuous behemoths of unimaginable beauty and terror. Is big wave surfing a war by other means? Is it post-modern gladiatorial combat? Is it a way for iPad man to 'count coup' like the Plains Indians of North America did by specific acts of laudable bravery in battle?
There's no doubt that 21st century big wave surfing has changed the psyche of wave-riding. It has raised the bar to an insurmountable height for the average surfer. Just consider the obscene amounts of epinephrine that are released when those hell-men make the drop, or are caught inside. It's a parallel universe that few experience, and perhaps that's why we all secretly covet the "Way of the Big Wave Warrior".
Nonetheless, what irks me about the whole adventure is the media's obsession with big wave surfing to the point of asphyxiation. Sadly, articles about Johnny 'Big Wave' Utah scoring 250 feet waves at some mysto slab 122 and a quarter nautical miles off the coast has become passé; almost yawn-inducing. Yes, I can see puffs of flak ahead and tracer arcing towards my argument, but bear with me. I thumbed through a recent surf magazine only to be rag-dolled into my own dark depths by a clean-up procession of big wave articles. In isolation, they would have made for an otherwise pleasing afternoon skim. I could have got my breathe back. But all of them? Gasp.
Perhaps I read too many surf magazines, but I've reached saturation point when it comes to yarns about big wave expeditions, 30 second hold-downs and 146 hour swell-chasing flights. Sometimes even the Herculean exploits of über-surfers can be reduced to 2 foot onshore slop by excessive exposure. Those jaw-dropping photos, lovingly sharpened and stylishly cross-processed don't even raise a jaded eyebrow from me any more. I've hit my big wave article critical mass.
Image
About to discover his own personal point of asphyxiation. Johnny 'Big Wave' Utah in a place the media loves. Wipeout. Photo: Pierre Marqua
Whatever happened to Joe Average, the weekend warrior whose arms turn to banana flavoured jelly when a solid six foot set blots out the horizon? No doubt he's been relegated to the tepid shallows of local news columns and reader photo contests. Godzilla Waves equal big sales, and who am I to argue the merits of more website hits or better magazine sales?
It's just that the glut of big wave chronicles has become boring. I'm not interested in inked up Bra Boys air-dropping down an almost vertical staircase of water over a dry reef. Damn YouTube too; one can only watch so many hapless stick people turned to chum on a 40 foot close-out.
Having said that, there's no denying the almost indescribable feats of those watermen who ride mountain ranges. Laird Hamilton, Twiggy Baker and the rest of the big wave mob are up there surfing the jet stream with the likes of Federer, Slater and Els (sorry Tiger).
Perhaps my age has forced me slip behind the dreams and aspirations of the ‘Nu Skool’, and lose track of surfing's zeitgeist. The 'supersize' generation simply wants to gorge themselves on bigger waves, bigger moves, and bigger airs. Methinks it's time to cancel my magazine subscriptions and spend a lazy Sunday afternoon ambling through a dusty stack of surfing mags from the 70s and 80s.
I never thought I'd ever long for the allure of mediocre waves; broken wind swells ruffled by a light onshore and ridden by average surfers. All hoping the wind will switch and the swell will 'jack' by 2 and not 10 feet. There's something very seductive about those painfully ordinary vistas, and it's the promise of the perfect day. It’s not about a 20 foot colossus, just a lined-up offshore day that Joe Average can relate to.
I suppose it's time for me to seek out more forgiving wavescapes, read less contemporary surfing literature and invest in a Zimmer frame. Now where are my glasses?
Ah, those merry few, that 'Band of Brothers' who epitomise the essence of a waterman's courage (served with a large dollop of insanity).
Words tend to wither when attempting to fathom those brave souls who paddle or are slingshot into tempestuous behemoths of unimaginable beauty and terror. Is big wave surfing a war by other means? Is it post-modern gladiatorial combat? Is it a way for iPad man to 'count coup' like the Plains Indians of North America did by specific acts of laudable bravery in battle?
There's no doubt that 21st century big wave surfing has changed the psyche of wave-riding. It has raised the bar to an insurmountable height for the average surfer. Just consider the obscene amounts of epinephrine that are released when those hell-men make the drop, or are caught inside. It's a parallel universe that few experience, and perhaps that's why we all secretly covet the "Way of the Big Wave Warrior".
Nonetheless, what irks me about the whole adventure is the media's obsession with big wave surfing to the point of asphyxiation. Sadly, articles about Johnny 'Big Wave' Utah scoring 250 feet waves at some mysto slab 122 and a quarter nautical miles off the coast has become passé; almost yawn-inducing. Yes, I can see puffs of flak ahead and tracer arcing towards my argument, but bear with me. I thumbed through a recent surf magazine only to be rag-dolled into my own dark depths by a clean-up procession of big wave articles. In isolation, they would have made for an otherwise pleasing afternoon skim. I could have got my breathe back. But all of them? Gasp.
Perhaps I read too many surf magazines, but I've reached saturation point when it comes to yarns about big wave expeditions, 30 second hold-downs and 146 hour swell-chasing flights. Sometimes even the Herculean exploits of über-surfers can be reduced to 2 foot onshore slop by excessive exposure. Those jaw-dropping photos, lovingly sharpened and stylishly cross-processed don't even raise a jaded eyebrow from me any more. I've hit my big wave article critical mass.
Image
About to discover his own personal point of asphyxiation. Johnny 'Big Wave' Utah in a place the media loves. Wipeout. Photo: Pierre Marqua
Whatever happened to Joe Average, the weekend warrior whose arms turn to banana flavoured jelly when a solid six foot set blots out the horizon? No doubt he's been relegated to the tepid shallows of local news columns and reader photo contests. Godzilla Waves equal big sales, and who am I to argue the merits of more website hits or better magazine sales?
It's just that the glut of big wave chronicles has become boring. I'm not interested in inked up Bra Boys air-dropping down an almost vertical staircase of water over a dry reef. Damn YouTube too; one can only watch so many hapless stick people turned to chum on a 40 foot close-out.
Having said that, there's no denying the almost indescribable feats of those watermen who ride mountain ranges. Laird Hamilton, Twiggy Baker and the rest of the big wave mob are up there surfing the jet stream with the likes of Federer, Slater and Els (sorry Tiger).
Perhaps my age has forced me slip behind the dreams and aspirations of the ‘Nu Skool’, and lose track of surfing's zeitgeist. The 'supersize' generation simply wants to gorge themselves on bigger waves, bigger moves, and bigger airs. Methinks it's time to cancel my magazine subscriptions and spend a lazy Sunday afternoon ambling through a dusty stack of surfing mags from the 70s and 80s.
I never thought I'd ever long for the allure of mediocre waves; broken wind swells ruffled by a light onshore and ridden by average surfers. All hoping the wind will switch and the swell will 'jack' by 2 and not 10 feet. There's something very seductive about those painfully ordinary vistas, and it's the promise of the perfect day. It’s not about a 20 foot colossus, just a lined-up offshore day that Joe Average can relate to.
I suppose it's time for me to seek out more forgiving wavescapes, read less contemporary surfing literature and invest in a Zimmer frame. Now where are my glasses?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Surfing’s Wooden Lala-land!
Just when you thought it was safe to get back in the water those fiendish marketing spin doctors have contrived yet another chunk of prohibitively expensive nostalgia; the Alaia. Much like its obese cousin, the SUP, the Alaia has been packaged as a one-stop portal to the sancta sanctorum of surfing’s roots. These finless, rockerless chunks of driftwood epitomise surfing’s recent retrograde obsession with finding the Holy Grail of surfing.
Surfing appears to be locked in a vicious circle of nostalgia. The word ‘Saudade’ has been described as a "vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist ... a turning towards the past or towards the future". In some respects surfing is in a state of ‘Saudade’, and the Alaia is a physical manifestation of surfing’s nostalgic dilemma.
The Alaia was almost single-handedly revived by the shaper Tom Wegener who was recently crowned as shaper of 2009 by Surfer magazine. According to Wegener,” Surfing in the ancient style on a finless wood board has been overlooked for many years now. In Hawaii the board was called Alaia. In Japan it was called Itaka. There is evidence of early surfers riding this style from all around the world but in the early 1900’s this style vanished.” Alaias are hewn from plantation grown trees, often organically grown so there’s a very marketable and politically correct hook for guilt-ridden consumers. According to Wegener, riding an Alaia positions your surfing on “a more universal scale”. I’m not sure how that translates in the water but he goes on to blather “on modern equipment you may catch more waves and “rip,” but are you surfing better?”.
There’s no doubt that Wegener has the makings of a salty philosopher but I’m not too keen on a board that paddles like a tomato carton and decimates your wave count. Wegener counters the lack of the Alaia’s wave catching and paddling ability by offering us mere mortals an esoteric challenge of sorts; “Riding the Alaia brings a new level of difficulty which turns most people off. But lots of the world’s best surfers find that this brings more excitement and joy to surfing.” Sorry Mr Wegener, but I’m not one of the world’s best surfers, and unlike the world’s best surfers I have 9 to 5 job so I’d like to keep my wave count at a premium!
I’m at a loss as to why anyone would want to ride something that requires so much graft. The Alaia paddles like a waterlogged Labrador with hip dysplasia and requires the skill set of a highly experienced waterman. Backlit images of Rob Machado and Rasta gouging open face carves on Alaias in California glass are mere marketing lip-gloss. Rob could get shacked on your granny’s tea tray, yet somehow we like to think that the Alaia is within our surfing ability. Just the other day we were sold the forgiving lines and extra foam of the Fish, the Egg and other retro classics; we’d catch waves earlier, easier and hurtle down the line like a deranged banshee on those boards of yore. That had real appeal for Joe Average, but now we’re been told to sing for our supper on chunks of oiled wood that are going to emancipate our surfing from the shackles of conformity. Forget it Bru, methinks that the Alaia is cut from the same cloth as the Emperor’s New Clothes.
Average surfers want a board that paddles efficiently, surfs decently, and actually has fins and a leash plug. I very much doubt there are any surfers out there who still decry the merits of the gookcord; besides a leashless board is a potential weapon of mass destruction in any congested surf zone.
Naturally, Alaias are completely eco-conscious and will offer a guiltless surfing experience, free from the evils of foam, fibreglass and polyurethane. You’re guaranteed long swims including the odd lawsuit as your trusty wooden steed will no doubt mow down all in its leftist path. Surfing’s troubadour of musical boredom, Jack Johnson will frame the fad with a planet-friendly ditty that will no doubt mesmerise the masses and become a soundtrack for the Alaia generation. Sorry, but I’m willing to take my chances on a politically incorrect chunk of fibreglass, securely tethered to my ankle.
Despite my aversion to the concept of the Alaia I foresee highly profitable niche brands materialising in the global surf market. Wetsuits will be discarded and Hawaiian style loincloths will become boardies for Alaia fashionistas, followed by an unparalleled meister-stroke of marketing genius, the revival of Peruvian Reed boats. Shapers will soon enough be ordering thatch by the truckload thanks to the Alaia fad.
It’s as clear as a crisp winter’s morn over False Bay, as an intrepid big wave hell-man strokes hard and makes an air-drop at an offshore slab on a handcrafted replica of an ancient Peruvian reed boat, with not a WaveRunner in sight!
No wetsuit, leash or common sense required …just a loincloth!
Surfing appears to be locked in a vicious circle of nostalgia. The word ‘Saudade’ has been described as a "vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist ... a turning towards the past or towards the future". In some respects surfing is in a state of ‘Saudade’, and the Alaia is a physical manifestation of surfing’s nostalgic dilemma.
The Alaia was almost single-handedly revived by the shaper Tom Wegener who was recently crowned as shaper of 2009 by Surfer magazine. According to Wegener,” Surfing in the ancient style on a finless wood board has been overlooked for many years now. In Hawaii the board was called Alaia. In Japan it was called Itaka. There is evidence of early surfers riding this style from all around the world but in the early 1900’s this style vanished.” Alaias are hewn from plantation grown trees, often organically grown so there’s a very marketable and politically correct hook for guilt-ridden consumers. According to Wegener, riding an Alaia positions your surfing on “a more universal scale”. I’m not sure how that translates in the water but he goes on to blather “on modern equipment you may catch more waves and “rip,” but are you surfing better?”.
There’s no doubt that Wegener has the makings of a salty philosopher but I’m not too keen on a board that paddles like a tomato carton and decimates your wave count. Wegener counters the lack of the Alaia’s wave catching and paddling ability by offering us mere mortals an esoteric challenge of sorts; “Riding the Alaia brings a new level of difficulty which turns most people off. But lots of the world’s best surfers find that this brings more excitement and joy to surfing.” Sorry Mr Wegener, but I’m not one of the world’s best surfers, and unlike the world’s best surfers I have 9 to 5 job so I’d like to keep my wave count at a premium!
I’m at a loss as to why anyone would want to ride something that requires so much graft. The Alaia paddles like a waterlogged Labrador with hip dysplasia and requires the skill set of a highly experienced waterman. Backlit images of Rob Machado and Rasta gouging open face carves on Alaias in California glass are mere marketing lip-gloss. Rob could get shacked on your granny’s tea tray, yet somehow we like to think that the Alaia is within our surfing ability. Just the other day we were sold the forgiving lines and extra foam of the Fish, the Egg and other retro classics; we’d catch waves earlier, easier and hurtle down the line like a deranged banshee on those boards of yore. That had real appeal for Joe Average, but now we’re been told to sing for our supper on chunks of oiled wood that are going to emancipate our surfing from the shackles of conformity. Forget it Bru, methinks that the Alaia is cut from the same cloth as the Emperor’s New Clothes.
Average surfers want a board that paddles efficiently, surfs decently, and actually has fins and a leash plug. I very much doubt there are any surfers out there who still decry the merits of the gookcord; besides a leashless board is a potential weapon of mass destruction in any congested surf zone.
Naturally, Alaias are completely eco-conscious and will offer a guiltless surfing experience, free from the evils of foam, fibreglass and polyurethane. You’re guaranteed long swims including the odd lawsuit as your trusty wooden steed will no doubt mow down all in its leftist path. Surfing’s troubadour of musical boredom, Jack Johnson will frame the fad with a planet-friendly ditty that will no doubt mesmerise the masses and become a soundtrack for the Alaia generation. Sorry, but I’m willing to take my chances on a politically incorrect chunk of fibreglass, securely tethered to my ankle.
Despite my aversion to the concept of the Alaia I foresee highly profitable niche brands materialising in the global surf market. Wetsuits will be discarded and Hawaiian style loincloths will become boardies for Alaia fashionistas, followed by an unparalleled meister-stroke of marketing genius, the revival of Peruvian Reed boats. Shapers will soon enough be ordering thatch by the truckload thanks to the Alaia fad.
It’s as clear as a crisp winter’s morn over False Bay, as an intrepid big wave hell-man strokes hard and makes an air-drop at an offshore slab on a handcrafted replica of an ancient Peruvian reed boat, with not a WaveRunner in sight!
No wetsuit, leash or common sense required …just a loincloth!
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