THE SURFTIME JOURNAL

SURFTIME THE JOURNAL FUTURE SHOCK

CAUGHT INSIDE # 126

A difference of night and day. One moment Bali is a ghost town, the next the tourists are back. Its happened before and it will happen again. It’s almost a rhythm here. Bali has never had a problem surviving cataclysms. The Dutch, World Wars, bombings, pandemics, environmental disasters, Volcanic eruptions. Being a nice place doesn’t mean it’s not tough. Or clever. Or an expert survivor. And The Surftime Journal is damned proud to count itself within this Indonesian toughness. We survived, just like the island did, just like you did, and with this, the second issue of our comeback year, we have created one of the best issues in our history. And it’s filled with plenty of tough characters. Our lead feature is a strong look at our future through the recent performances of our next generation. A generation that is taking competitive surfing more seriously than ever before. We all have Rio Waida to thank for that, proving that with a tough approach, we can do it. We also visit the Mentawai with an exclusive story and photos from Pete Matthews. He witnessed one of the greatest, most dangerous sessions to ever come down with superstars Griffin and Crosby Colapinto, Kolohe Andino, Ian Crane and Luke Davis leading the charge. If the photos don’t leave you breathless, his story sure will. Then we head to Sumbawa and crawl inside the mind of the Dedi Gun struggling with the challenge of good intentions and his great dream of changing the Lakey Peak surf culture for good. And that’s the toughest job on earth. And thanks to Pete Frieden we also have super exclusive photos of Kelly Slater

absolutely ripping micro surf at Padma. It was an intimate, private encounter with the greatest of all time and Sports Illustrated writer Gary Smith puts it all in perspective for you. Then we strike north to Medewi, a place of massive changes as it hurtles from a quiet left turn off the highway toward being a major energy center for Bali tourism. A new superhighway project is plowing right through the place and Southeast Asia’s largest amusement park has already broken ground within hearing distance of the line-up (no word yet on the rumored wavepool). Also, as most of you know, this year’s STAB HIGH contest was held in Sumbawa. We had writer Holden Trnka on the ground and he brought back a story on the meaning of aerials set to the backdrop of exclusive images from the competition (All shot on 35mm film no less). We then asked 13 year old hotshot Kalani Ryan to give us the lowdown on Keramas. His take is a joy to behold. We have the latest photos from pumping Desert Point in Pete Frieden’s intense portfolio, guaranteed to get you to clean the wax off your board and put on a fresh coat. And we have a thoughtful essay by writer/director Sam George on the current state of female surfing. And of course we finish with an all local gallery of the greatest action of this past season. Remember, nothing happens to you, it happens for you. And tough times never last, but tough people do. So let’s hang tough, together. After all, we’ve already proven we can.

-Matt George, Editor-in-Chief

Jl. POPPIES II, 2020

Jl. POPPIES II, 2022

Cover: Supergrom Dylan Wilcoxen charging the gun nest at a secret spot near his home in the Mentawai. Fresh from an impressive win at the Gromsearch, could he someday be Indonesia’s next great hope for the WCT? Already surfing well beyond his 13 years, an entire industry is betting on it. Photography by Kandui Resort.

The mood has changed. In fact it’s not even a mood anymore, it’s a movement, a belief. To look into the eyes of our youngest generation of surfers in Indonesia is to look at a hungry generation ready to feed on competition. Rio Waida has proven the possibilities, made pro surfing not just a yellow brick road but a very real path. So that is what the Surftime Journal did. Looked into the eyes of our cubs back during the Gromsearch held at Halfway beach in Kuta. Yes, it had all the typical trappings of a kiddie contest, the anxious parents, the tears of those who almost made it, the tears of those who did, the hopes and dreams and comparisons and gossip and jealousies and judgments and cliques and claps and sunburns and sandy skin.

But this time, this time, under the blazing sun and amid the monsoon trash and debris that muddled the beach and added the possibility of getting knocked unconscious by a tree while paddling out, this time we witnessed the smartest competitive surfing that has ever been seen from our youngsters. And looking upon it on the final day, if you measured the relative height of the competitors to the size of the waves, our little mighty mites were paddling out into challenging 8 foot, chopped up, rip strewn surf. The courage that took alone proved to us that our youngsters have got their eyes on the prize. And with the advent of custom boards and equipment designed specifically for the under 30 kilo crowd, these surfers, for the first time in history, are able to emulate their heroes to a tee.

Right: It’s in the eyes, our new generation of supergroms are hungry and ready to lay it all on the line. There has never been a time when our youth have been more motivated to win and support each other in doing so. Pereranan Surf Club Team mates Juana, Kadek Dafa and Rama, providing the proof.

Photo: Antonio Vargas Tabarini

They're Coming To Get Us

Jasmine Studer, leading the lady groms at serious Padang Padang. The helmet a symbol of her commitment to deep performances in the heaviest line-up on the island. Having master shaper Luke as a father and coach is one example of the kind of support our youth are receiving as they surf their way up the ranks with their eyes on a shot at a pro career. Photo: Byronetmedia

Used to be a little kid was lucky to get a beat up, broken in half, banana bruised relic to learn on. Now, with surfing becoming a far more realistic sport to Indonesian parents, this mini army of rippers are showing up with scaled down quivers as sophisticated as their grown up hero’s. If you are over forty think about your first board and you will get our point. Like F1 and its super charged carting system for young drivers, finally a supercharged system of boards and coaching and has reached the shores of our young. And they are basking in its blessings. Yes, despite all the hopes and dreams many will fall to the wayside, sure, but by the look of it many won’t. And that’s the point here. Indonesian surfing is being forced to mature by the youngest among us.

These little chargers carry in their hearts our grown up hopes for the future of Indonesian competitive surfing on a global scale. And it is indeed shocking that not only do they have the spirit and the ability to make it happen, but that they are getting so close. Remember, youth is the trustee of prosperity and history is always on the side of the young. Just look into their eyes. They’ve taken this thing on, and now it is up to us grown ups to keep them true to their dreams.

Right: With superboards specifically built for them, style and power are now achievable at unbelievably young ages. Made Balon, channeling Taj Burrow at Gromsearch 2022.

Photo: Antonio Vargas Tabarini.

Natan Johanes, all style, all the time. With sophisticated equipment comes a sophisticated approach—at any age. Photo: Liquid Barrel

A combination of Indonesia’s cornucopia of perfect reef waves and ease of accessibility in this modern age is producing very well traveled surfers barely in their teens. Lidia Kato, a lucky and very talented young lady, somewhere in the wilds of the Mentawai. Photo: ryan@rizphoto.

Words and photos by Pete Matthews (An excerpt from the book The Last Crusade, Lost Publications, 2022)

Griffin Colapinto, dealing with the forces of interrupted Indian ocean. “And they were just crazy to find this spot they heard about that was just 100 proof gnarly. What the hell were these guys trying to prove? How to chase a parked car? This place is triple X”.

Kolohe Andino, using decades of experience just to make one deadly drop. “The personality of this place was a real waiting game. The sets were like an artillery barrage and you had the pick the ones that had a survivable angle”.

I found myself on a Mentawai charter awhile back with the ultimate A-Team. Kolohe Andino, Griffin and Crosby Colapinto, Ian Crane and Luke Davis. And they were just crazy to find this spot they heard about that was just 100 proof gnarly. What the hell were these guys trying to prove? How to chase a parked car? This place is triple X. It’s just this outcropping of razor rocks where out of nowhere this wall of water just lurches up and hooks out onto emptiness with dry reef all around it. I mean, it looks like it might be a nice place to snorkel around with a topless babe on a flat day, but actually surfing the place as it just carpet bombs the reef? Baffling. It’s liquid chaos out there. Hard to make sense of the motivation. But these guys had it on their radar and they were not gonna let it go.

The personality of this place was a real waiting game. The sets were like an artillery barrage, you had the pick the ones that had a survivable angle. I mean sometimes the tap would just shut off and the boy’s would end up paddling back to the boat. But that’s what’s so eerie about the place, one second you’re about to quit and the next you are just pulling into these death chambers. Crosby got the best one first, but Luke waited it out and got a monster. Just this giant hole in the ocean. Kolohe was just total confidence and Ian Crane, the only backsider, took it on and I thought he was gonna die. Backside at this place? Probably good that he couldn’t see what was going on behind him. And Griff? He was surfing like it was the last day of his life. And it might have been. This goofy kid just becomes a wild animal in those conditions. You know, that kind of wave where you don’t remember the barrel as much as you remember the drop? Because it’s just full-on commitment or death by scraping. Once you start paddling, that’s it. Total focus, No changing plans or taking a

look at it. Hold back for one second and really bad things are gonna happen to you. I was looking through a telephoto lens taking pictures of these guys paddling into these waves and you could just see the animal in their eyes, like something hunting in the jungle, knowing that they just had to kill it or die. Wiping out was just unthinkable. Over the falls? Hospital bed. If you could make it to a hospital. Help was two days away. In that moment, that drop, nothing else was happening in this world. You had to get under the whole top third of the wave before it just heaved out onto a parking lot full of broken bottles. But they wanted it that bad. I guess that what it takes to be among the best on planet earth.

This one crazy day we were in a total storm, rain, thunder, lightning and the whole boat is just swinging around and rocking, and this was a big boat, a catamaran and these damned things are supposed to be stable. Anyway, crap is sliding all over the tables and I’m puking over the side and groaning and hoping for a helicopter to take me away and all of a sudden these guys decide it’s the perfect time to go back to this death wave. What the hell? I thought I was dying and these animals are treating the storm like it’s some kind of Disneyland ride. Yeah, they won out. And the death chamber was just pumping chaos and out they went. Look, I know little girls can rip Macaroni’s and duck into tubes at HT’s, but it’s a rare surfer that can manage this place. Not a slab, a coroner’s table. This place is for the wicked talent among us. I know most people will look at the photos and think they could take it on, but they can’t. And shouldn’t. Not without a life insurance policy. That night on the boat I looked around at these guys and they all looked like they had PTSD. I thanked the Mentawai Gods that by the next morning we’d got the hell out of there.

Griffin Colapinto, contemplating the possibilities and then applying them. “And Griff? He was surfing like it was the last day of his life. And it might have been. This goofy kid just becomes a wild animal in those conditions”.

Luke Davis on a wing and a prayer.

“You know, that kind of wave where you don’t remember the barrel as much as you remember the drop? Because it’s just full-on commitment or death by scraping. Once you start paddling, that’s it. Total focus, no changing plans or taking a look at it. Hold back for one second and really bad things are gonna happen to you”.

A dreamer is the one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world. Dedi Gun, photographed by Matt George at Rip Curl Headquarters, Bali, Indonesia, November 20, 2022, at 1310hrs.

A man is not old until his regrets take the place of dreams. Dedi Gun, still the one at Lakey Peak. Photographed by Paul Viney

As opposed to his murderous intent in heats, Kelly’s freesurfs have always held elements of childlike play. Maybe this is why he has always had time for the youngest of fans. Even if he does not speak their language, his heart does. Kelly, spreading the magic across the cultures at Padma Beach.

r ider Uneasy

t he mystery behind why

Kelly slater of sUrfing

still loves the sport

Photography by Pete Frieden

Kelly Slater, 50 years old and 11 Titles in, still has the desire to paddle out and rip as hard as he can. But has he ever figured out why he surfs in the first place? In this excerpt of an early Sports Illustrated Magazine profile by GARY SMITH, the writer seeks the truth.

He appeared on the beach one afternoon wearing a black suit and tie over a white shirt, carrying a briefcase and balancing a door on his head. He laid the briefcase on the sand. He laid the door in the ocean. He lay down on the door and paddled toward the waves. The break there, a legendary one on the north shore of Oahu, often rose two stories high in winter. He bobbed in his suit and tie, awaiting something more than the half-foot swells rolling in, then rose to his haunches as he caught a wave. He stood, and began surfing to the beach on the door.

They were partners, the ocean and Kelly. He could glide and flip and twirl whether she smiled or snarled. On days when he seemed certain to fall to his challengers, when he was down to his last wave in a heat with time running out, the ocean wouldn’t let him. She’d send him the perfect white horse, and he’d leap on it and charge to another victory. Why, Kelly Slater could surf a door—that was the expression his awed rivals used. And as it turned out, he actually had.

A second man, Jack Johnson, stood on the beach that afternoon in 1993 at Pipeline. Yes, that Jack Johnson, the singer-songwriter, Kelly’s friend, capturing the scene for his college freshman art class in a film called Mr. Slater Goes to Work. It was a movie that invited the viewer to mull the oddity of tens of millions of people wearing suits and ties and reporting to office buildings nearly every day of their lives, while Mr. Slater reported to a beach. A movie, one might say, about the door that’s there for all of us, the one too risky for many to open, behind which lies the question: Why do you do what you do? Why do you dress that way? Why do you do that job? Why are you married? Why are you alone? Why do you compete? Why can’t you let go? No, c’mon ... why, really?

Let us never forget that our best Top Gun pilot, despite his impeccable style and control, always surfs on the edge of the performance envelope. Kelly Slater, putting 50 years of ferocity into every turn.

And then one day eight years later, after Kelly Slater had won surfing’s world championship five years in a row, six times overall, and everyone agreed he was the best surfer who’d ever lived. Mark Richards, whose four consecutive world titles Kelly had surpassed, declared, “I don’t care who you mention—Michael Jordan, Muhammad Ali—Kelly is unquestionably the greatest athlete ever to stomp around on this planet.” And this was after Kelly, weary of chasing waves across the world for a living, had been retired for three years. And then a strange thing happened. Kelly decided he wanted more. No, that wasn’t strange; sportsmen always wanted more. Strange was what the ocean did. She wouldn’t let him have it.The white horses stopped coming. The magic left his surfing. He sat in the sand and stared in bewilderment at the ocean, until at last he heard what she wanted.

Yes, he could have everything. He could become better than he was at his best, become the oldest surfer ever to win a world championship as well as having been the youngest, become the most dominant athlete in the history of sports.

He could spawn a new world tour, more artistic and crowd-pleasing, and begin to carry surfing from a niche sport, seen mostly on the Internet, toward the mainstream. He might even find the holy grail: the technology to create the perfect wave, enabling children a thousand miles from the ocean to surf and office workers to remove their suits and ties and do it on lunch break, eliminating the vagaries of weather and swells so that large audiences could settle into seats in surf stadiums with beer and popcorn, and rich television contracts could be signed, and Olympic gold medals could be draped around surfers’ necks. Kelly could be the Michael Jordan and David Stern of his sport—the iconic athlete doing aerials and 360s and also the power broker changing the very structure and marketing of his sport.

But only if he did what he never had to do the first time: Open the door. Answer the question. Why do it at all?

(Read on at: https://www.si.com/edge/2015/11/05/si-vault-kelly-slatersurfing-gary-smith-asp-tour-wsl-championship).

Having reached the lofty heights of Olympus, Kelly has never stopped from attempting to climb even higher. Kelly Slater, Padma Beach freesurf, pushing the boundaries of age and performance on every wave. Long may he live.

Muklis Anwar, walking into a hopeful, if unknown future. Photographed by Matt George on Jl. Medewi Point, Bali, Indonesia, November 06, 2022, at 1816hrs.

Life bythe side of the skeleton road MEDEWI:

By Matt George

It is late afternoon. That time of day on any west coast where the color of the sea and the land contract into vivid hues and shadows begin to crawl east like living things and a golden path rises from the sea and leads to the sun. You are at the surf break of Medewi Point on the island of Bali, far from the tourist madness to the south and you can see alpha local Muklis Anwar and his covey of wet, shiny, local kids crabbing their way toward shore over the slippery boulders on the inside of the surf break. A misstep here and any one of them will receive a spray of urchin spines deep into the front pads of their feet and nothing more than a sewing machine needle to dig them out with. Muklis has been teaching the village kids how to surf and the kids hold under their arms all manner of relic surfboards. Chunked, split and repaired, cast away like dolls without heads by the western visitors of this place over the decades. Yet these boards are gold to the humble, to be smelted and recast. Every part of the buffalo is used here in Medewi.

A sexy tourist surf mom is herding her three blond kids toward hotel towels on the back seat of a rental car as her handsome, bearded husband straps sandy softop surfboards to its roof, their surf session complete. Then an old white lady surfer with untamed, waist length, slate gray hair pulls up on a beat up scooter. She has a maroon twin fin surfboard design with beautiful wooden fins in the scooter’s surfboard rack. She is tanned to leather and, like a witch casting a spell, she sets her eyes out over the blown afternoon surf. Her aura reaching everyone that is hanging out on the picnic table that serves as a throne to the elite surf locals gathered around it. It is theirs, this table, that overlooks the break of the longest breaking wave in Bali. But superstitions and visages of witches and wraiths still wander the midnight paths here in Medewi and the old white lady, fitting certain descriptions, is given ground. The old surfer lady obviously lives around these parts somewhere back up the hill, sure to be in one of those cool, green places that lifer expats manage to build against all odds. Having chosen her final days, her surf curated life now long determined by the tides and the torrid sun and the perilous rocks and the waiting urchins of Medewi. It is enough for her kind in their autumn years. Far behind you, from the tiled minaret of the unfinished mosque above the narrow highway which is swollen with careening, bleating, overloaded trucks, the Adzan brays over a fuzzy megaphone. The strident five minute public call to the Islamic faithful that kicks off five times a day here at Medewi, the first at 4:15am. That early Medewi hour where only the non-drinking tourist surfers are scraping their boards with wax in anticipation of the first hour of light before the devil wind arrives from the south. The cry of the Adzan describing such a foreign sound in Bali and a reminder that

you are at the singular surfing Muslim enclave on this Hindu island. The afternoon wanes into the first gilded sunset hour. A Russian surf school van skids up behind the picnic table and all eyes turn. A gaggle of excited 30-something beginners, their noses and shoulders and thighs newly sunburned, tumble out of their seat belts and onto the sandy dirt at the end of this Medewi village road. Two of the local kids jump up off the picnic table with their neatly folded stacks of welcome-to-Medewi tee shirts and begin a brisk business. The bloodshot, exhausted surf instructor steps down out of the passenger side of the van. He glances at the surf and then looks down at his feet and sighs deeply, knowing his task ahead. Two wizened Indonesian woman and their granddaughters, all bound in black Jilbab veils, ghost in from one of the smaller warungs on the point and begin to pour strong, black coffee from a battered thermos and to sell sweetmeats and crackers and boiled peanuts to the locals holding court on the picnic table. It is that time of day when despite the surf and the conversations and the excitement of the surf school, you can still hear the heavy coins clinking as the granddaughters collect them from the afternoon gathering.

One of the bigger set of waves moves in through the afternoon blowout and time stops and everyone on the point watches. Everyone. Three surfers go over the falls on the first wave, two others collide on longboards on the second wave and clearing the wreckage, a skilled female white surfer on a mid-length surfboard survives and begins her run down the point. She finishes with a flourish and the picnic table crowd goes back to their words and boiled peanuts. The sun has burned the acropolis clouds off the horizon revealing smoky silhouette of Java across the great channel, reminding you of where you are on earth. You are hours north of Kuta Beach and the Bukit Peninsula, those promised lands where the trade winds of legend groom waves to sculpted perfection. Unlike here at Medewi where the dry season trade winds, relentlessly onshore in these waters, punish the sea from 8am to dusk, maiming the waves and making them hiss and spit like fighting cats. Still, Medewi remains a perfect wave for the honeymooners of the world. A far humbler, more spacious and much longer wave to surf with a lover in Bali. There are no expectations or judgments in the water here. It is a place for the mild. A soccer ball comes whistling overhead and another group of local kids, dressed in holed pajama bottoms and cast off, extra large t-shirts from every surf shop on earth, slither through the assembled crowd like mercury. They chase the half inflated ball into the shorebreak and scrum with it up the point. The male field workers, muscular as bundles of rope, sit on low, worn and cracked stools under the Holy tree next to the picnic table.

Lighting up with a shared box of wooden matches, they smoke their pungent clove cigarettes and, their day’s work done, play with a deck of bent and frayed cards. Gambling being haram here in Medewi, they play for clothes pins, the loser having to snap them onto their ears. One man has four of them pinned to his right ear and the others roar with laughter as the man loses another hand and must clip another pin to his left ear. The others elbow him and grin the grins of the luckier as the cards are reshuffled. Two middle aged Australian surfers walk out of the lobby of the nearby expensive hotel on the point with brand new surfboards and beer thickened bodies. Sunscreen expertly applied, they move through the gathering on the point with hellos and easy jokes and make their way down onto the furnace hot black sand that protects this place from the teeming beach tourism of Kuta. Much like the pervading Muslim faith that demands an observance of innumerable decorum’s,and so unlike the Sodom and Gomorrah of the white sand beaches to the south. Black sand tourism is an entirely different kettle of fish, requiring a visitor that has no interest in sunbathing or beach umbrellas or summer novels. Here at Medewi the sole purpose of the beach is to provide waves to surf. A lone American expat, an old hand, his surf cares sated for the day, ambles down the street and takes his place at the picnic table with a green bottle of beer held between two fingers and the thumb of his right hand. He swigs and nods and smiles at Muklis, who has since made his way up to the picnic table with all the kids. And Muklis smiles back, still wet haired and panting from his surf with the children of Medewi. And Muklis strips off his shirt and wipes his dripping face with it and then holds it at his chin with both hands and looks out over his domain. You can see it. Behind Muklis’s eyes. All is well he seems to deem. Though he remains forever wary of the white visitors, hoping the madness and the unfiltered greed of the southern beaches of Bali never arrive here at his place in the world. Despite the noise and the fury and the building of the new superhighway that is blowing through Medewi town, forever replacing the deadly “skeleton road” that has served as the main highway for so long. And despite the giant, international F1 track that has just broken ground within sight of Medewi point. And despite the gouging, tree cracking destruction of the jungle not six kilometers away that will become the site of South East Asia’s largest amusement park, wave pool and hotel complex. Despite this, Muklis hopes the better angels will arrive with these barbarous changes, and so dampen the evils of progress.

Muklis Anwar looks out at the surf, tasting the salt on his lips. And then he looks at the local children that surround him. And Muklis takes a great breath and holds it and closes his eyes and listens to the surf and to the Adzan of his faith. And softly moving his lips he exhales and prays his afternoon prayer to Allah, imploring him to protect this place and to bring good fortune with these inevitable changes happening all around him. Hoping at the very least for opportunity and education and a new hospital for the people of Medewi. And hoping most of all that these children will adapt and hang on to their truth and not fall victim to this progress. To maintain strength enough to eschew bitter servitude and instead become a dignified work force within the altered future that has finally found this quiet place.

With a superhighway plowing its way through the village and Indonesia’s largest amusement park and rumored wave pool having broken ground practically within sight of the line-up, the northern soul of Medewi is up for grabs. Only the strong, and the tolerant, will survive. Photography by Matt George

FLYBOYS AND LADYBIRDS

A LOOK BACK AT STAB HIGH SEEKING THE HIGH GROUND

By Holden Trnka All 35mm film Photos courtesy of Jimmy Wilson Vans/Monster Energy/Stab High

And to the victor go the spoils at the Stab High aerial contest at Lakey Peak, a contest that lent the ultimate credibility to aerial surfing. Rasta Robb hoisting the check and the entry seed to the Pipeline Masters. With aerials now a component of the Masters, the most prestigious contest on earth, will this young aerialist be able to bring the magic to the most deadly wave in the world? And should we have to?

In the sea of similarity and anonymity which we humans often wallow in, there are fleeting tenets of individuality to cling to. An off-kilter haircut, a strange way of speaking, a new way of painting, an outcast ideology. There are some people who make a living by defining their individuality through such avenues. By being so stubbornly individual, so truthful to themselves, that they manage to wield a unique degree of power over the general public. In our world, the surf brands then take notice of these individuals and they are quite literally paid to play. In our wave-obsessed universe, they are known as free-surfersand the clearly are our culture driving, trend defining talents beyond the hijinks of the WSL. By shying away from competition—from institution—these surfers follow their heart. Maybe one wave feels like a haiku, maybe the next looks like a painting, filled with spinning brushstrokes. Whatever their medium, each freesurfer is undeniably creating a sporting art, and most of them would continue to do so whether or not the checks kept coming. In the media, or anywhere else for that matter, we ra===-=rely get to see more than a handful of freesurfers gather at once. Maybe a few guys come together for a project here or there, but to see thirty freesurfing talents gather at once is a rare sight. And so, when 30 of the worlds most gifted freesurfers gathered at Lakey Peak for the Stab High contest, it was a rare bird indeed. ….…………………….........................…….

Aviation: noun the design, development, production, operation, and use of aircraft, especially heavierthan-air aircraft.

Looking back, when that large swell loomed at the Stab High contest at Lakey Peak, uncertainty hung in the air. Whether or not the Peak could handle the energy without becoming treacherous was the issue. Memories of Jeremy Flores’ horrific head injury slipped into the back of everyone’s mind. The right off the peak is a tremendous ramp for lofty airs, facing perfectly into the southeastern trade wind. But the landing pad often runs dry onto a craggy reef. At the Stab High competition, I was able to watch a humble fishing village transform into a hub of eccentric foreigners who get paid to jump surfboards out of the top of waves. That was the whole point of the contest. A strictly aerial competition for both men and women. And it didn’t happen like you’d expect it to. There wasn’t any broadcast booth or personal trainers, or sporty exercise bikes or athlete zones.

Shaun Manners going stratospheric, proving he is one of an elite flight crew.

In fact, most of the crew that showed boozed it up every night, with very little thought put into “strategy” or “preparation”. We were all housed in various sheds and shacks along the beachfront stretch and, like churchgoers, congregated at the storied Fatmah’s Restaurant overlooking the break. In front of Fatmah’s sits a great lawn, with a winding walkway ending in a wooden gate, which opens up to the footpath that stretches out along the town’s coastline. On any given morning prior to the contest, one might happen upon bloodshot eyed surf stars stumbling towards the restaurant for a morning coffee. A handful of us ate our fried rice breakfast’s and watched from Fatmah’s as the first competitors took to the water in the local ponga boats. An early wind had blown ribs up the face that first day and the drops were tricky. Airdrops and broken boards began the morning. Each morning really. Despite Van’s having sunk money into it, the judging tower was no more than an ocean worn wooden structure, built over the existing skeleton of the famous Lakey Peak scaffold. We were advised to have no more than 15 people on it at a time. The judges, an assortment of Stab staff and Vans surfers, spent the entire contest on this wobbly tower, shouting out the scores. The tower was dubbed the “Leaning Tower of Lakey” and had it collapsed, Stab and Van’s might no longer have existed as a company. I remember the women ripping. Sierra Kerr landed the best air in female surfing history. She looked to be miles

above every other Ladybird — except for Caity Simmers, that girl is headed for a world title. And for the men, Ian Crane was the only goofy footer to manage the task of a proper backside straight airs. Matt Meola and Chippa Wilson staunchly threw middle fingers to the judging criteria by landing enormous upside-down rotations in their heats. Both failed to advance, but not without making their statement. Down with the bureaucracy! Or something like that. This contest was about as far from a bureaucracy as one could get. There was the evening heat draws, I remember those. The local’s had developed an affection for Rasta Robb and they would chant his name. Local fisherman and surfers mingled with the crowd of sunburnt westerners, while Nathan Fletcher did his best to captivate the crowd with his trademark reluctance. The relentless sun caused each day to blur into the next. The dinner time conversation grew ever more interesting. The surfers seemed to be become more comfortable with one another. New friendships were formed and nothing felt dull. Did Eric Geiselman actually drink all that red wine? Chippa has adopted a feral cat? Ten days is not long enough to grow weary of new companions. Not when everybody is this fun. Most mornings I walked barefoot out onto the crisp morning grass in front of my room. Nathan Fletcher would nod to me on his way to hunt down a few waves before the wind would come up. A morning fisherman would be trying his luck just offshore in his colorful boat.

Matt Meola, from Maui to Sumbawa, always a wild visionary of aerial performance. With aerials now an affirmed element of our sport, what must we ask of its future?

A big white tokay gecko would peer at me around a plastered corner. One might almost forget the aerial siege of Lakey Peak in these moments. But the sun would pierce the horizon and disturb the sleep of all the surfers. And the wind would come like clockwork and the contest would be underway to the soundtrack of cutlery clinking at Fatmah’s. And the day would melt into the next. And then would come another night of the debauchery and then morning would come too soon.

But on one of those mornings, the finals got underway. The judging tower was full of characters and Fatmah’s was full of spectators all squinting into the brilliance of a Sumbawan morning. The waves and the wind continued to pulse. But from Fatmah’s, discerning which surfer was which was a daunting task. Silhouettes launched themselves through the skyline, but no one — save for those on the judging tower— could be sure who advanced. One thing was for certain though. Sierra Kerr dominated with that proper full rotation onto the flats of that throaty section. It sent the the Fatmah’s crowd into a screaming ovation. Sierra Kerr had become the Ladybirds Champion. The men’s final was less straightforward, with a flurry of airs from nearly all competitors, leaving the judges scratching their heads. But when the surfers arrived at the beach, it became obvious that only two were in contention. Rasta Robb and Lakey local Bronson Meydi. This

divided the local crowd in two. Half chanting patriotically for Bronson the local boy, and half chanting for their new prince, Rasta Robb. The procession of the finalists made its way over to Fatmah’s and the crowd gathered on the lawn as the sunset fanned their fandom. Surfers and parents and staff and the locals became a single organism, all waiting for the word.The Judges gathered with a decision. Then, two words, one name.

“…Rasta Robb”

A great roar rose. Rasta Robb was bombarded. Then someone tackled him into the scoreboard. Robb, the Floridian with the lovable laugh had taken the win, the 20 G’s and a direct seed into the Pipe Masters. A prize like no other in history. And only heaven knows how a spindly little Florida aerialist is going to fare in bombing Hawaiian surf. Above the madness of the moment the moon hung gently in the southern sky, and toasts were sent in all directions. Winding down with a collective sigh, these moments of success became history. Tomorrow was for tomorrow. We would all fly off to different destinies and each soul would wriggle free from the collective and continue with their creative surfing lives. As quickly as Lakey Peak had become overrun with a celebration of aerial surfing, so it would become a quiet Sumbawan fishing village once again. And Stab high would leave no trace, just like the waves themselves.

With a confident air game like this, Caity Simmers is on her way to multiple world titles. But now that aerials are an accepted element of top tier competition, will a great air game be as instrumental in gaining future titles as it has in the past?

Mickey Clarke, hoping to land what is in essence a modified flyaway kickout. Setting the bar has never been harder, but considering the speeds we reach combined with the forces of gravity we face, just how high will we be able to go? And when will these mad attempts stop being barely makeable stunts and become functional maneuvers that enhance both the rider and wave?

KERAMAS CONFIDENTIAL

A stream of consciousness with Kalani Ryan Photography by Pete Frieden

A YOUNG PERSPECTIVE ON THE KERAMAS EXPERIENCE

Kalani Ryan is a 13 years old. Born in Kuta, Bali, today he is one of the Island’s best young surfer’s and getting better every day. Surftime recently found him to get his stream of consciousness take on why the wave at Keramas is so important to any young Indonesian s urfer interested in choosing surfing as a career in the new era that is upon us.

The very first day I surfed Keramas I was with my friend Jason. He used to live out there and my mom dropped me off to stay with him and his family for the weekend. We were 11 years old and I knew that I just had to surf that wave if I was going to be anybody. I don’t know why it had to happen that way, but that first day was huge. Felt kinda unfair to me. But somehow Jason and me got out through the shorebreak of death and we were just hanging way out on the shoulder dodging sets and Bronson Meidy was out with all the other gnarly guys just getting tubed so deep and I was so scared. But I knew I had to catch one and even though I was on the shoulder I took off on the biggest wave of my life. And I found out real quick how small I was. I was just speeding faster than anything in my life and my board just, like, became a flying carpet and I knew I was gonna die. I hit the water and it felt like wiping out at a skatepark the water was so hard. That was my day one. I was also on the beach during that WCT that Kanoa Igarashi won and I remember watching surfing that seemed impossible. And I paddled out during the warm up, I was a little older then, and all of a sudden I was surfing with Mason and Coco Ho and Kelly Slater and it was so sick. I remember thinking when I was hanging with them that I had to become a lot better surfer to deserve hanging out with guys like that. But I was still kinda scared of Keramas. It’s gnarly, man. It was huge again, like at that time I didn’t think Keramas ever got small and I just got destroyed again. I was sure I was gonna die for the second time. Wiping out there is just black and dark and not normal. It’s like its haunted under a wave there. But now I’m thirteen and it’s so fun for me. Once I got older and got Mayhem boards and confidence and encouragement from my friends and family, I knew I was going to live. I look back and laugh at myself. Even though I can still remember what it was like to die. But I love that wave now. I remember once me and Dylan were surfing it so hard for two days and I think all I had to eat was ice cream and I was going out at noon again and the sand was like walking on a barbecue and all of the sudden I just got so sick and dizzy that I thought I was dying again, like I thought my heart had stopped. So I made it back to the stairs and sat down and wasn’t sure what to do, so I just started crying. I thought my life as over again. Keramas had done it again. That place has that

kind of effect on you. But then James Hendy came over and asked me what was going on and I couldn’t even speak. So he and his family took me back to their room and got me in the air-con and just fed me cold water and I slowly got better. Turns out I had sunstroke, that’s how hard I was hitting it. I also remember Stephanie Gilmore and all those gnarly girls, they rip. I mean if girls can do it I can do it. Girls charge that place. On your backside you want to take off late, then make the drop and stall and pull in and then hope no one drops in on you. This is where you need a good rep to surf Keramas, and you gotta hit at least two big snaps before the gurgle at the end. I wish I was alive back when it was a secret spot so I could surf it with just my friends. Just to surf that wave alone? Man, but those days are over, we gotta find new waves these days. Go on adventures and find the secrets. Trust me I know. But at Keramas, you can do everything you know how to do on one wave and that’s not easy to find. Today you wanna get to Keramas because everybody else is there and it’s like a big event veryday and you do not want to miss out. All the photographers are there and you wanna get the shot and you wanna make sure you keep your rep. There is no excuses at Keramas. I remember another huge day I was out there with Dylan, Griffin Colapinto and Kanoa and Felipe and Stephanie and I swear it was ten foot, man. Me and Dylan were so shakin’ but like Griffin was doing back flips and Kanoa was doing full rotations and these big gouges and Dylan and me were just tripping. And finally I told Dylan we had to man up. And this big set came and Griffin called me in and I just paddled faster than anything and I don’t even know if my eyes were open but all of a sudden I am looking like I‘m jumping off a cliff and I make the drop and the only thing I remember at the end of that wave was that I wasn’t scared of Keramas anymore and that I was gonna be able to surf that wave for the rest of my life. The local guys are pretty gnarly, Lempog Jackson and those guys, they rip hard and it is theirs so they have the rights. It’s their wave. That’s fair. For sure. The future of Keramas is crowded though. Crowded like crazy. But it’s the only training ground we have that can really get you ready for the big world out there. The big time. You want cred in Indonesia? You either rip Keramas or forget it.

Previous Spread: At Keramas, nobody does it better. Rio Waida jamming way back, proving what pushing the limits of your dreams can accomplish.

The thing about Keramas is that it is always chasing you down. Bronson Meidy, post snap, dealing with the low tide powerball.

Eric Gieselman, fresh from his Stab High performances at Lakey Peak, bringing his incredible aerial act to small Keramas. “Keramas is the only training ground we have that can really get you ready for the big world out there. The big time. You want cred in Indonesia? You either rip Keramas or forget it”.

Affirmations of a surf Photographer:

A surf photograph, above all, must explain the the humanity of the moment. Using a machine to capture a moment in the ocean reveals how rich reality is. We take surf shots to understand what our lives mean. A great surf shot is not made in the camera, but on either side of it. It’s one thing to take a picture of what a wave looks like, it’s another thing altogether to show what a wave is. The raw materials of surf photography are light and time, life seeking light, life seeking time, one hundredth of a second at a time. A surf photographer is the instrument that teaches surfers how to see without a camera. Surf photography is life lit up. It has so little to do with a camera. The camera just sits there in the hands of a master. The surf photographs are there, you need only take them. A surf photo is the stillness of a chaos. The real equipment surf photography takes is simply a pair of eyes. A surf shot is a breath held forever. Surf Photography is a disclosure of art. Dreaming, by both surfer and photographer, is what leads to great shots. Surf photos, just like the waves themselves, do not happen twice. Be there. Great surf photography is about a depth of feeling, not depth of field. Surf photography is a love affair with life. What photograph is your favorite? That’s easy. The one you are going to take tomorrow.

Behold a young woman riding a surfboard today and know what surfing is Awareness of this reality is becoming more and more clear as the sport evolves, appealing to an entirely new wave of young female devotees who see surfing not so much as an act of rebellion or athletic pursuit, but a distinctly feminine expression of joy.

‘Lady Birds’ Bella Kenworthy, Caity Simmers, Quincy Symonds and Sierra Kerr flying free at Sumbawa’s Lakey Peak; Erin Brooks demolishing the fiberglass curtain at Padang Padang; Vahine Fierro’s and Moana Jones’ danger wave barrelriding at Teahupoo and Pipeline; Kaya Waldman charging the peak at Waimea Bay; Betty Lou Sakura and Luana Silva ripping Keramas, Molly Picklum and Alyssa Spencer representing a new wave on the championship tour; everywhere you look these days young female surfers are taking their place in the world’s lineups with an entirely new, unapologetic acceptance of place. A sense of natural entitlement that a previous generation of extraordinary women surfers—the Lisa Andersens, Layne Beachleys, Steph Gilmores and Carissa Moores—had to do without, they being required by various external cultural and competitive forces to surf as much like a man as possible. Clearly, those days are over.

Viewed from this perspective, these fresh young faces have more in common with their Polynesian progenitors than the contemporary female pioneers in whose bare footsteps they followed. When in the 18th century the first Europeans arrived in Hawaii, they marveled at not only the spectacle of islanders riding waves purely for fun, but at the sight of both sexes enjoying themselves in the surf on equal footing. In fact, much ancient Hawaiian surf lore features compelling female characters, fully capable of demonstrating levels of the skill and devotion normally assigned to men. An indication that there was something in particular about surfing that aligned itself with feminine energy, a connection that runs deeper than mere application, but borders upon the spiritual. Hawaiian women, so restricted in self-expression in a male dominated society, found at least one place where they could be exactly who they were, and do exactly what they wanted, at least for the length of a ride to the beach. Satisfied in the knowledge that a woman’s place truly was in the waves.

Which is another way of saying that to behold these young women surfers is to know what surfing’s most essential appeal looks like. Aerials, competitive compulsories, barrel riding, four story drops or just cruising in the curl; it’s all about just being completely, un-self consciously present in those precious moments when up and riding on a wave, regardless of how one rides it. By achieving this, today’s young female surfer, set free to express a renewed feminine ideal, becomes more than elegant, more than beautiful; more than inspirational. She is why we all surf.

THE NEW FEMININE

By Sam George

Luana Silva. “surfing not so much as an act of rebellion or athletic pursuit, but a distinctly feminine expression of joy”.

Photography by Liquid Barrel

Betty Lou-Sakura. “Everywhere you look these days young female surfers are taking their place in the world’s lineups with an entirely new, unapologetic acceptance of place”.

Luana Silva. “An indication that there was something in particular about surfing that aligned itself with feminine energy, a connection that runs deeper than mere application, but borders upon the spiritual”.

BELONGING ELECTRICITY BROTHERHOOD HOME

Tonjo Darmaputra, maintaining both his composure and his pride in a screaming blue eastside moment. Forever a VIP member of our Indonesian roster, his perennial performances have never been anything other than high voltage stoke.

Photography by Liquid Barrel

BELONGING ELECTRICITY BROTHERHOOD HOME

Nyoman Satria excercising caution as the better part valor at an eastside spot known to break bones. Eastside blackwater power is not to be taken lightly.

Photography by Liquid Barrel

BELONGING ELECTRICITY BROTHERHOOD HOME

Koki Hendrawan, riding between heaven and earth in a committed gesture of thanks that goes beyond the concept of giving and soars into the realm of spirituality. As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.

Photography by Salty Vagabond

BELONGING ELECTRICITY BROTHERHOOD HOME

Mankind has always gazed at the clouds in wonder and has always sought to fly among them. For us earthbound creatures isn’t it wild that attempting to fly has always felt like a birthright? Blerong Darmayasa reveling in a human moment of turning wonder into reality.

Photography by Liquide Barrel

Fargo Beanie

Dickies Hipsack Bumbag

Linework Hoody

Dickies H.S Classic

THE VISSLA EXPERIENCE

Vissla is a brand that represents creative freedom, a forward-thinking philosophy, and a generation of creators and innovators. We embrace the modern do-it-yourself attitude within surf culture, performance surfing, and craftsmanship. We constantly strive to minimize our environmental impact and protect the oceans and waves that raised us. This is a surf-everything and ride-anything mentality.We are creators and innovators. Come see us at our new shop in Seminyak on Jl. Kayu Aya No 88X Seminyak. A new, open space designed to allow you to match your fashion with your free thinking. Vissla will always find its heart in the Ocean and we know you do too. So drop by and create and innovate with us. Because we are all our own future.

INDOSOLE SAVES THE WORLD

Opening in late 2018 Indosole’s flagship store in Echo Beach has enjoyed some great community gatherings and has been so much fun that we wanted to expand our reach and ability to help affect positive change and continue to provide alternative solutions to waste issues globally. We want to do this by providing the ability to live a fun and beautiful life. So we believe there is no better spot for our second store than near one of the most iconic waves in the world—Uluwatu. Then, in following the Taksu philosophy and the balance of Yin and Yang, we felt Ubud was the best lokasi for our 3rd store in Bali. We found

a perfect little spot on the beautiful walking street of Jl Goutama in Ubud. We hope to see you there with a huge smile on your face and we will be smiling right back at you, ready to help you find a great pair of sandals. We think you will love them. Plus, they are going to last you a long time. To date we have recycled over 100,000 used tires, so please help us to push on by visiting us here: Indosole Echo Beach, Canggu, 69 Jl pantai Batu Mejan. Indosole Uluwatu - Jl. Labuan Sait No 10 (Uluwatu Corner) and Indosole Ubud - Jl Goutama No 3. You will be glad you did.

THE FILMER

A Surf Story by Pete Matthews

(An excerpt from the book The Last Crusade, Lost Publications, 2022)

SPEAKING OF PRO SURFER’S PERSONAL FILMERS, IT’S LIKE AN S&M RELATIONSHIP. It’s a life of purgatory and submissivness for the filmer. I mean, here we are in the Mentawai, on the boat for lunch in the A/C, and this poor filmer guy is on the beach just getting irradiated by the sun. Like a roasting 8-hour X-ray. These Filmer guys are just tortured all day long. Guys like Jacob, Griffin’s filmer, they get dropped off on the beach and it's hotter than hell. I mean, we’re one degree below the equator and they have to sit there, on the edge of a bug-infested jungle and take it like a nanny on the playground, trying to keep an eye on the kid, for absolutely every second. Literally every second of the day, these filmers have to watch their little men. Frame by frame. Capturing every move their little man makes. Imagine having to do a ten-hour selfie. Now imagine doing it for someone else? A thankless job. Dawn to dusk, waiting and watching for your little man to have the time of his life, over and over, while you just stand there, in techno-hell, having to capture his every joy.

For example, this torrential downpour blows in and the poor Jacob the filmer is filming from the beach. So now he’s building an emergency shelter out of palm fronds, but not for him, for the billion dollars worth of camera equipment he lugs around the world. So he’s on the radio… Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Come get me! … while Griffin is on the boat, finishing up his eggs benedict and croissants. So we look out toward the beach and you can barely see Jacob, and he’s just lost all hope. He’s like a castaway. He’s standing at the water's edge with his hands up like that scene in Platoon. He’s just surrendered to the elements. And then, when Griffin gets on the radio to him, it’s like a counseling session. Hey man, suck it up, this is the life you chose… and poor Jacob is like, What the hell? But Griff is just real calm, talking Jacob through the storm. At one point, no one was laughing. I mean Griff was convincing, man. He was smooth. He had us half considering our own choices, anyway, you know, so poor Jacob gets off the radio to take matters into his own hands and he packs up all the gear, tons of it and he’s carrying it on his back like a Galapagos tortoise and he humps it 200 yards down to the pickup spot at the end of the reef. And just then, the rain stops and the sun comes out and in 30 seconds it’s just a beautiful day. But now, on the beach, it’s like when the sun rises on Mars, you know, soaring from 90 to 200 degrees in two seconds. And poor Jacob looks around at this beautiful day and knows he has to hump all his equipment back to his emergency shelter and keep looking through that viewfinder to capture the greatest moments of somebody else’s life. The filmer guy is actually a the hero of any surf clip. The unsung hero of the internet. And I swear, we all had a moment of silence for Jacob as he plopped down in the sand with his face in his hands. So it can be like real home movie nightmare crap for the filmers.

’Nother example, the HT’s session was 7am to 7pm. And Griffin is amphibious. He barely gets out of the water. Dawn to dusk, you know, for the filmer that’s two separate mosquito hours right next to a steaming jungle. These filmer guys are risking their lives on the

beach, just capturing footage, hours and hours of it. All the technical crap you gotta pay attention to and your life is dependent on batteries and you can’t miss one wave. Not one. It’s a helluva price to pay for the romance of it. I mean it sounds good – Travel the world with the elite! Go to the best waves on earth and make movies! Bullshit, man, this is more like chopping wood in hell. Then, as soon as Jacob gets to the boat at the end of the day, Griff is just on his ass… let's see the clips! … This filmer kid is just fried, literally, but his work is long from over. It’s not human. I used to have this job, for Andy Irons of all people. Never again. You couldn’t pay me enough. I don’t know what the motivation is…I mean, I used to film Andy. It does not get more brutal. So with Jacob, I took mercy. I would go to the beach with a cool wet towel and put it over his head, bring him ice water and nutrients and just try to bring the guy back to life. He’d be all bloodshot and bug bit and worn out and dehydrated…man… he needed an IV. Squinting into some eyepiece, trying to keep the horizon straight while your head is just swimming and hermit crabs are attacking the cuts on your feet and the mosquito’s are drilling you and any one of them could mean malaria.

So Jacob’s little man is out there and maybe it’s a lull, but he cannot take his eyes off the lineup for a second. Just staring into the blazing glare, you just have to wait and wait for your little man to do something clever and then capture it for the whole world to see and applaud. These filmer guys, with these billion-dollar cameras, are not supposed to even listen to music. You're supposed to stay focused, man. Pardon the pun. And meanwhile, your little man out in the surf paddles back to the boat and drinks five cold Gatorades and a tenderly cooked shrimp and veggie kebab and finishes with some cool fresh fruit and then scrabbles back out into the lineup. But poor Jacob is on the beach, he’s got a stale, melted, Indonesian candybar and a bottle full of water that’s the same temperature as his urine. It’s like he’s lost at sea. I couldn’t help it, I’d been there. I’d try to keep things right, you know? I mean, I’d go to the beach with that cold water and maybe a sandwich left over from the crew and Jacob would practically wanna marry me, he’s so thankful. I found him at one point where I’m sure he was seeing stars. Then again, back at sunset, we’d be on the boat and Jacob is being forced to set it all up for viewing. Meanwhile, he’s moving like some lobster-skinned zombie. I swear he was glowing by the time his day was done. So he’s plugged in ‒ and this isn’t America, we’re drawing power off an old greasy generator down in the hold that could blow the brains out of a jumbotron ‒ and this billion-dollar camera starts smoking and overheating. I’m yelling at Jacob, Shut it down! Shut it down! And Griff is saying Wait, Wait…my good one’s coming up! And poor Jacob is dealing with a seventy thousand dollar fire hazard at this point. I swear it’s just torture…But that’s modern pro surfing, man, no one surfs unless the cameras are rolling. Oh yeah, and with these gnarly reef breaks in the Mentawai, did I mention these filmer guys have to bodysurf their Pelican cases through the shore break, over gnarly live coral and pray the thing holds as they go over the falls onto a craggy beach? The price of being an artist, I guess.

MAKING FLOWERS OUT OF PAPER

-From TRACKS Magazine, Australia, 1981-