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Every one of us on this trip tried to keep our cool and hide our frenzied buzz about The Godfather’s attendance. Muddled whisperings when he wasn’t looking about our idolatry for him. I tried to speak for all of us, be an ambassador of sorts for our severe adoration while we sipped on our margaritas. But I was at a colossal loss for words. Sometimes the Olympic gratitude required just can’t take shape within the constraints of arranging 26 letters. Which I think gets to the heart of why witnessing Ozzie shred is so magical. It’s some kind of blank romanticism of his extreme chaos. There’s a lot of words and sentences you could jumble together to try to inadequately describe it, but just like having a disembodied dream of a dream, some things in this world are meant for experiencing, not describing.

“I used to look to skateboarding and music for inspiration. Now surfing is so cool and inspiring I don’t have to do that anymore,” said Ozzie as he sipped on his margarita, not realizing the cyclical irony of what he just said. Ozzie cemented these rocks into the whole of surfing’s collective. If surfing is in any way inspiring to him now, it’s because of his undeniable role in its expansion — whatever the fuck that means. This trip in some way or another, without planning it, was some sort of an ode to Ozzie. A stumbledupon celebration of his every thrash. Ozzie is our messy Godfather, our messiah whom we flock behind.

It’s an awkward conversation talking to the person who cemented a jagged rock of power and fire into your soul about the people who cemented the jagged rocks of power and fire into his soul. These rocks differ from the seeds of inspiration that get planted and grow into something nice and easy to swallow. Instead, these rocks are jagged with sharp edges that gash and tear holes in your spine and flesh and make you abandon who you thought you were and awkwardly dye your hair and spit at your parents. Rocks that really fuck you up, but eventually, over many years, those rocks get the rough edges smoothed and polished by walloping around in your skin and blood and guts like a tumbling river stone and melt seamlessly into whatever it is that makes you who you are, without you even knowing it. A blood rock that becomes a small part of you.


Bali Belly Issue 003  

Bali Belly magazine from Bali, Indonesia.

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