Foreword
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no, i’ll never be a real surfer.
but i am familiar with the excitement of the first look at the ocean in the morning, riding unbalanced some waves standing on a longboard, hearing the crashing foam you dive under, the ache in your arms from paddling endlessly, being churned in the ‘washing machine’ after another wrong move, the salty taste of seawater in your longs after a miscalculation, patiently waiting for a decent wave with other silent surfers, an unexpected encounter in the line-up with a seal or low-flying pelicans and off course the most important thing: the imagination how you will surf the perfect wave tomorrow.
i’m not a surfer in depth. i’ll never experience the kick of descending a towering wave while my board is shaking as it skims over the steep water surface of the breaker. i’ll never experience the religious feeling of being inside the tube where time slows down, concentration is hyper and you are warped to another dimension in ‘the green room’. no, i’ll never experience the feeling of being catapulted above the turbulence of a rolling whitewater carpet.
i’ve been told all these wonderful things. and no, i’ll never experience these intense emotions. and that’s a damn shame. it is something that i am jealous about. My stiff joints, the place where i live and my age are insurmountable obstacles i can’t paddle across.
the act of surfing is about using and turning the energy of something big into movement. the act of photography is the opposite.
photography is to anchor movement into something small, to capture life into a frame. i am certainly a photographer and definitely not a surfer.
but this offers me an interesting vantage point.
i had the privilege and pleasure to have a good look at the men and women who carry the ocean in their soul. i captured them hungry, longing and dry before the surf… or wet, exhausted and wagged of happiness after.
no, i didn’t photographed them in action in the swirling sea. With their feet in the sand, i molded them, i shaped them as statues. i petrified them in front of my camera while the echo of the sirens try to lure them back in the sea. in the neighborhood of a swell, it is quite a realization to freeze a surfer and keep him in front of your lens for a couple of minutes. but in their bright eyes i’ve seen the rolling swells, i’ve been able to guide their bodies in the ideal poses and their self-assured gaze to horizons off screen, feel drops of water from their hair fall onto my feet, provoke warm embraces with their loved ones, have them hold surfboards against
their chests, wipe the salt from their tanned skin, capture the scars of lost battles against coral reefs, admire chilled faces in black thermal wetsuits, saw the sweat streaming out their pores of the skin on a broiling beach… some allowed me to focus on the stumps of severed limbs, or on their surfers’ eye, also known as pterygium, or even stronger, a few allowed me to look into their empty eye sockets where only a hole remained after the impact of the tip of a surfboard.
i’ve photographed all these men and women on the beaches of California, hawaii, australia, new Zealand, bali, france, sri lanka, senegal, the Chocolate islands… i’ve captured their bodies achromatically in the shade of azure surf spots. banzai pipeline, snappers, padang padang, la Gravière, Waimea beach, hanalei bay, raglan… all these place names are unknown to landlubbers, but surfers don’t need a compass to locate these spots. the atlas of surf is tattooed in their hearts.
Whether they are living legends or future champions, free surfers or elderly surfer hippies, surf photographers, lifeguards, musicians, surfer chicks or just fascinated onlookers, they all have something in common which they recognise in each other: the love for the water, the addiction to the waves, the passion for surf.
a group of people, not connected by land but rather by the ocean currents. Creatures which are almost amphibious, a kind of mermaids, who thrive on the magical boundary between sea and land. people who are grateful for an incoming swell, patiently await for the attractive wave and whom are briefly sad when seeing an unridden wave. surfers, armed with board or paddle, like warriors with shields and spears. they belong to a liquid community. they are all humble members of the powerful surf tribe where man does not have the final say. a tribe without a leader. the only chief is Mother nature.
stephan vanfleteren
