9 WIN TER TRIPS / TAHITI / GLOBE IN INDO / JOA N DURU / NATHA N FLORENCE #102 ENGLISH EDITION NOVEMBER 2013
ENGLISH EDITION ISSUE 102 NOVEMBER 2013 JOHN FLORENCE BY TIMO SURFEUROPEM AG.COM
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WHEN THEY CAME OUT OF THE JUNGLE AT YO-YO S THEY EACH SQUINTED MAD EYES AND SWORE THEY SAW TAJ BURROW... THE TAJ BURROW
Yet Another Indo Surf Trip p.34 T h e T a j B u r r o w, S u m b a w a . P h o t o : D J S t r u n t z
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R u m bli n g s Stra n ge
GLOBE trotters Creed, Damo, Taj, Nate and Dion swing through Indonesiaâ€™s celebrated glory holes for Strange Rumblings By Chas Smith Photos by DJ Struntz
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S u n l i g h t C o m e s C r e e p i n ’ I n Creed McTaggart drove a ruddy hand through his rat’s nest of blonde. It was impossibly tangled and impossibly dirty. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered to himself as he fished around in a denim pocket with his other ruddy hand, “Son of a mother loving bitch.” The water sparkled in the earliest of morning light all around him and the hum of an engine droned like an old but annoying friend. He was not swearing because of the impossible tangles, impossible dirt. The boy had not washed his hair in four and a half years. He was not swearing because it really was the earliest of morning, a time when every sensible man, woman and well-behaved child is sleeping soundly. He was not swearing about past loves, even though he was, in fact, thinking about past loves. No, he swore because his fishing ruddy hand had stumbled on an empty pack of cigarettes. He had thought there was one, at least one, left in it. He knew it, in fact. But he was wrong and the crinkle of plastic and tin foil let him know.
((...Nate T had trouble containing himself but he feared DJ more than monkey wrath...)) “Son of a mother loving…” he started in again, though before he could finish a brown man with weathered eyes appeared from out of nowhere standing at his elbow. “Kretek?” it sounded like a question while shoving a clove Creed’s way. “Lifesaver, mate.” Creed responded. “Mother loving lifesaver.” He looked around and saw photographer DJ Struntz asleep on a half rotted bench and was glad. Too many pictures of him smoking had leaked and it was now his “image.” He was a “too-cool-for-school” “What Youther” on some forlorn “Highway to Hell.” In reality he was just Creed. A small fry from Western Australia. Except the surf world had just discovered that this particular small fry had more rail style, more macking fearlessness, more air steez than almost anyone else in the game. He never thought about any of it though. He was only satisfied as he lit the clove, heard the crinkle crackle of burning tobacco spice, felt its warmth and watched Indonesian jungle come alive around him.
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-x“Son of a mother loving bitch.” -x-
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((...Except the surf world had just discovered that this particular small fry had more rail style, more macking fearlessness, more air steez than almost anyone else in the game...))
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Y o u n g B l o o d Yes, DJ Struntz was asleep but damn all if he wasn’t prepared. At the slightest whiff of trouble he would be up, taut, ready to pounce like a tiger on any shark, gorilla, gangster or thug. The perp would wish it, he or she had not messed with this American German with a Navy SEAL heart. And he was only asleep because the Globe crew including captain Joe G., Dion Agius, who had grown a mohawk to accompany his beard and was being called Mr. D and Nate Tyler, who had every right to be called Mr. T but chose not to be, had been traveling throughout the Indonesian archipelago for what seemed like weeks. Joe G. felt what the
Hobgood. He had not been with them on the boat. No. He had found his own way there like a mystical saint. And Damo Hobgood sat deeper than anyone as those, like, super scary waves pulsed toward the reef. Green Bush is not a normal wave. Its lip pitches so fast, so guillotine-esque, that not only does it demand ice-water veins but also cat-like reflexes. And Damo Hobgood sat deeper than anyone and slid down the face and stalled and got barreled and got spit out. Stalled! Only the maddest would stall here but he stalled with both hands, sticking them deep into the chest of the wave, clutching its heart, refusing to let go. Yet Damo Hobgood was not satisfied. He
team needed was overland and overwater Indo adventure. Anyone with money can charter a plane and a boat and drop from amazing reef break to amazing reef break with a private chef and satellite television and airconditioning. But none of these elements, except amazing reef breaks, craft good story and life is only about crafting good story. And so there were flights from Los Angeles to Tokyo to Singapore to Lombok and 3AM ferry rides and speedboats and busses and land camps. It was exhausting and especially for DJ because the surf they found had been, without exaggeration, the best ever. They had surfed Green Bush, the famed wave that Dane Reynolds himself dubbed, “like, super scary” on such a massive swell that all the boys, Mr. D, Nate T, quaked in their unbuttoned floral shirts before paddling out. Yes, they quaked but amongst them also paddled a steadying influence. A man so adept in out of control situations, so calm in the face of overwhelming odds, that some swore ice water ran through his veins. The boys called him Damo. Damo
was not satisfied with getting more barreled than anyone in history. He wanted the rest of the Globe crew to share in his nirvana and so he shouted them into position and shouted them into waves and each of them listened to Damo’s siren call. Everyone, that day, got more barreled than anyone in history. Mr. D even, the same Mr. D who made a name for himself twisting in the on shore air like a short ballerina, got more barreled. Nate T from, let’s be honest, terrible wave’d Central Coast of California, got more barreled. And DJ Struntz swam in the middle of it all burning up the shutter on his camera. So he had every right to be tired and taking a nap instead of pictures while Creed McT smoked a clove cigarette and thought about his past loves. Y e a h , Y e a h , Y e a h , Y e a h . And Creed exhaled deeply. Smoke filled the air and mingled with the jungle all around and the call to prayer, which seemed to be coming on a bit late. Or too early. And the jungle really was all around. Like,
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Yoyo‘s was not named after the female rapper...(above) Alex Smith grooves (below) Teebs hooves.
surrounding every bit of everything he could see besides a thin alley of water. That is what happens when Indonesia is done overland and overwater. Jungle. And jungle brings a sort of madness. The three, Creed, Mr. D and Nate T, thought it was Hobgood madness at Green Bush. They thought that being screamed in to waves bigger, throatier, scarier than any (except Creed because he is from Western Australia) had any business being on was simply a matter of Damo’s wild shouts. And it was partly Damo. But it was also jungle madness. Colonel Kurtz
consuming weirdness where reality starts to bend and disappear in a green canopy of “YOU are not in the WEST anymore.” Where everyone starts to look at everyone else and say things like, “What if we never went home? What if we built a shack from banana leaves and just, like, surfed.” The crew floated in this haze after Green Bush and it got worse, or better, or weirder, or whatever, as they floated. Parrots screamed from somewhere up above and monkeys. The monkeys were particularly taunting. They screamed, “We want you to shave a mohawk Nate
T. And then we want you to poke DJ Struntz with a stick when he is sleeping. And then we want you to steal his cameras and throw them in the water.” Nate T. had trouble containing himself but he feared DJ more than monkey wrath. And eventually they floated to Yo-Yo’s. T i m e i s D i s t a n c e . When they came out of the jungle at Yo-Yo’s they each squinted mad eyes and swore they saw Taj Burrow, the Taj Burrow, surfing alongside Alex Smith. But how could this be? Had the monkeys
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((...And Damo Hobgood sat deeper than anyone as those, like, super scary waves pulsed toward the reef...))
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((...Yet Damo Hobgood was not satisfied. He was not satisfied with getting more barreled than anyone in history. He wanted the rest of the Globe crew to share in his nirvana and so he shouted them into position and shouted them into waves and each of them listened to Damo’s siren call...))
stolen their minds? But no. The monkeys had not. It was Taj, the Taj, looking like the baby-faced legend that he is and Alex Smith looking as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Creed, Mr. D and Nate T. paddled out so excitedly that they babbled some bizarre gibberish. Taj, the Taj, was put off at first. He is a ‘CT surfer, damn all, he didn’t need this. But as soon as they got near enough he could see that they were inflicted with severe jungle madness so he could not hold anything against them plus the waves were as good as they had ever been. The five of them surfed honest perfection. After Green Bush it almost seemed playful with each Creed, Mr. D and Nate T. slipping and sliding and barreling and airing in a hallucinogenic state. But Taj, the Taj, stole the show with his monster hacks and progressive grabs and wicked wickedness. Alex Smith stole the sideshow surfing smoother than any man since Tom Curren. After the super session Joe G gave them all a subtle head nod. He knew he had captured something epic. He knew this is what the universe wanted for him as he sat in a Brazilian cab freshly painted blue, green and yellow and told the driver to take them all to Indonesia. U n a s h a m e d D e s i r e Creed took a last drag off the clove before stamping out the brown butt on the boat deck. Mr. D appeared from out of nowhere holding a stick. “I’m going to poke DJ,” he told Creed. “Don’t do it, mate,” Creed responded. “DJ will break all of our necks, rip our heads off and stick them on poles in the ground. He’s got the madness. I seen it in him.” Mr. D shrugged his shoulders reached the stick toward DJ’s ribs. Creed cringed. One millisecond before it made contact Joe G. appeared from out of nowhere and said. “No. This has all gone on long enough. We need culture again. We need wine, women and architecture. Clean up, boys. We are going to Europe. But first we are going to surf the best Macaroni’s of the decade. Gird your loins.” Mr. D nodded and shrunk into the mist. Creed looked around for the brown weathered man. He needed another clove. All he saw was a monkey eating an apple and smiling.
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