We try to stay out of politics on Korduroy. My personal philosophy is one of self-empowerment and I mostly ignore the multitude of issues swirling about. When I first heard about PIPA and SOPA, the proposed bills lobbied by the entertainment industry to supposedly protect the intellectual property rights of artists, I was irresolute. On one hand being a filmmaker and having my films pop up on torrent sites days after release is lame, but I’m always wary of any rules or regulations that have the capability to stifle our freedoms. After reading more about the bills, the negatives vastly outweigh the positives.

Check out this video for more information…

Make your voice heard (http://americancensorship.org/).

I’ve been looking for a way to address the hipster topic for a while now, and with the exchange between former Surfer Magazine editor Chris Mauro and Dane Reynolds, there’s finally a topic that opens the door. Here’s a summary of Dane and Mauro’s exchange…

Last October, Mauro wrote “Dane Reynolds’ Virulent Strain” an article describing “Daneophilia,” a fictional epidemic infecting impressionable young surfers. According to Mauro, Dane-o-Feel-ya is characterized by “languorous behavior… more commonly known as the fuck-its.” Dane, after announcing his departure from the ASP World Tour, fired back with a lower case, sixteen-hundred word “Declaration of Independence,” defending his decision and lashing out at Mauro referring to him as an out of touch dinosaur.

We’ve all seen Dane excel with abandon and crash in self-consciousness. He’s been pegged as the leader of surfing’s much loathed hipster movement, implicating him in many crimes against upper-middle class humanity. Mauro is not alone in his criticisms, Reynolds’ ambivalence towards fame and competition despite his hefty salary paints him as, well an overly-sensitive ingrate. And on the surface it’s an easy case to make, Dane appears to have it all: money, freedom, power. So why the melancholy interviews and awkward speeches? The majority of Mauro’s digs are indicative of how many feel about us 20 somethings: spoiled, out-of-touch, psudo-erudite tragedies infected with Dane-o-feel-ya. They caution that it will all end poorly. That this new hipster disease is a sinking ship. “Better to ditch the naive idealism, join the rest of society and pull our weight. Drop the act, and stop leaching the system dry with our arrogant navel pondering. This gripe is nothing new, just ask those who lived amongst the Luddites, Dadas, Beats, Hippies, and Punks. Society has always been quick to label its dissidents with labels and slurs. But the truth is, from Tom Sawyer to Holden Caulifield, we’ve all been, if even for a brief moment, disillusioned youths coping with the ugly side of the system that ironically supports our misgivings. But if Dane is merely another cog in history’s wheel of hapless over-privlidged youths, why do we care so much about him? Surely not because of his neck beard or hand scribbled t-shirts. The fact is that behind all of this apparent BS, Dane rips. He draws lines with a surfboard that reek of a highly refined craft. Even Mauro admits that Dane’s surfing is a thing of beauty. And with each session Dane is creating visceral art.

The very word artist is rooted to the Middle Age term of artisan: a person specializing in making something that directly contributes to their collective group. Ruling class aside, wealth and status have long been earned through a combination of creativity and practicality. But as technology has increasingly fragmented our once cooperative systems, the ancient human tendency to tinker for the common good has become adulterated. What used to be a simple equation is now a complex algorithm of self-promotion, marketing, overseas production and the nurturing of a “fan culture” that sustains it all.

Perhaps there is some truth to the common dig that likens stars such as actors, musicians or athletes to spoiled perma-children. For the nature of our star/fan culture is not to teach but instill idolatry that serves the sale of associated products. And this marketing of products acts as a wedge creating a perceived separation between fans and stars when in reality, the star is just another person with a job. A job which just so happens to be an incestuous relationship between business and pleasure. According to wikipedia “hipster” culture is defined namely by a preoccupation with the authentic, which is perhaps a reaction to this perverted nature of modern day consumerism.  Maybe this is why Dane is leaving the tour, guys are buying $250 Redwing Boots and girls are dressing up like Native Americans, people everywhere are searching for something that finally feels real. 

In his post, Mauro compares Dane with the super competitive pro surfer Adriano de Souza, postulating that Dane isn’t participating with the same level of sincerity as Adriano. While Adriano’s overt passion might win heats, overlooking the value of Dane’s performances of reckless abandon is to miss something important. Aside from our generation’s quest for authenticity, we are attempting to detach from the fear surrounding the many problems that need fixing. Issues like environmental harm, divorce, cancer, stress, and loneliness will only be quelled by the service of adventurous minds contributing a mix of cutting-edge innovation with creative detachment, not unlike Dane’s surfing. A lofty comparison I know, and it’s an equally strong point that surfing alone isn’t valuable enough of a contribution to warrant the wealth and status given to the top pro surfers. For certainly the fabric of our culture wouldn’t unravel if competitive or free surfing disappeared tomorrow. But the pure act of surfing is a great place to start, it’s an activity that takes a tremendous amount of workmanship and dedication to perfect, and those traits are building blocks towards living an inspirational life of any sort.

And herein lies Dane’s new challenge, and the challenge of anyone who endeavors to make their way in the complicated socioeconomic landscape of today- it is essential that we see past the trends or anti-trends, the stoke lies in learning from people who live their lives connected to a practical reality beyond the chatter of people  bashing “hipsters” on their blogs or buying a lifestyle just to look cool. It is our job to somehow seek and relate substantial truths back to society rather just than perpetuate the self indulgence we’ve grown up with. When this is achieved Chris Mauro won’t have to write articles questioning our morals, the answer will be obvious and inspiring.

Editor’s Note 12/29/11

Here’s a follow up regarding Chris Mauro’s article. Firstly, I don’t back Dane in the belief that Mauro is a “dinosaur,” although I am sympathetic to Dane’s sentiments. The fact is that without Mauro’s opinion, Dane wouldn’t have written such a personal retort and we wouldn’t have had the opportunity to engage in this discourse. Banter from critics whether it be Mauro, Baja locals or anyone else is just a natural human tendency to humble the alphas in their group. I read once that chimps who display the most naturally gifted abilities get attacked by the rest of the pack, ensuring the eventual leader is either a chimp who second in skill or a severely humbled alpha who will be in service of the group. The ivory tower system of stardom separates us from those natural interactions so they instead play themselves out on blogs and internet forums. Reading Mauro’s post in this light, seems to reveal it as just a call for engagement with a star who ambivalence towards towards his job often leaves his fans in the dark (and it’s obvious Mauro, like myself, is one of Dane’s biggest fans). However, the nature of stardom is one of a peculiar isolation that’s seldom explained and rarely understood. And this isolation is magnified when the star is a deep, thoughtful person like Dane. But that probably requires another post altogether, maybe it should be called why “Why Dane and Mauro Should Be Friends.” Also I wanted to mention Zach Weisburg’s post on this topic which came out promptly after Dane’s declaration, it’s a good level-headed take on the exchange and influenced this post.

Having shot this over 5 years ago during one of Dane’s breakout WCT performances on Australia’s Gold Coast, I’ve haven’t known what to do with the footage. Originally it was going to be used for a 16mm film called “Corduroy,” he title of which minus the “C” was obviously used for this blog years later.. Well, we thought it fitting to finally release it after Dane’s announcement that he’s leaving the tour. Thanks for the stoke man and good luck movin’ on, we’ll enjoy watching it all unfold.

It’s rich sweet love between the moon and this deep turquoise sea of the Indian. You tell me that exists out there somewhere, perhaps far out beyond the land of the West where few seldom go?

Well it does be real, and it is not unknown, but only if you had ventured yourself you find long spinning left hand reef breaks and a spice unlike no other. Perhaps this surf adventure should be shared with a chosen other to ensure it to be real, if you do decide to follow such a path like this tale here, if you journey beyond where the ocean meets the sea, and do go further into the great Western than anyone you thought you knew has, you too will know it to be true … but only if you return.

Let this be a warning, enjoy this here coming treasure, and soak in the tales, yet know this mysterious surf adventure be this way for good reason.

Introducing Jay Killvan’s Reunion Island, via a short film and some words that explore a volcanic island surrounded by a surfing sea…

Some things are exactly the same no matter where you are. Yes, Bourbon Island is mysterious enough to make you feel as if you’re far, far from home, yet there are routines and elements like any place that determine the course of the day and the mood of the people, just like home.

The mornings are fresh, people grab coffees and the birds sing at the break of dawn. Queues form at the doors of local bakeries serving fresh comfort baguettes, fruit shop workers cart out colourful produce, the church is alive with light prayer and the early offshore flicks the switch to surf excitement. Surfers hammer their wips to favourite vistas to survey the day’s offerings. With froth spilling from their mouths they infiltrate line-ups the island over. Ceci est universelle.

As the sun jacks itself high over the sugar cane fields, shifting the spectrum of the sea from a haunting navy to an electric turq, the early crew retreat and the late morning crew move on in. Oily waves spill across reefs ridden in haste by surfers eager to get their score before the onshore. The midday heat tunes the early afternoon, late lunches, market stalls and boardwalk strolls. With the diversity in cultures comes afternoon tea in a variety of aromas and flavours, yet the ritual is common, the effort easy to fit right in.

The afternoon in St Pierre seeds a youthful vibe, and on every corner hip cats, peak caps and bandana fashionistas occupy dedicated corners by the beach. The girls taunt the boys by the ice-cream parlour and the elderly seek refuge from wild teens. By late afternoon the urban landscape is a theatre for a parkour pack, concrete railings serve as obstacles for freestyle BMX hoods, the skate park is alive and the onshore wind ruffles the canvas for relaxed surfers battling typical afternoon conditions. An orchestra of sub cultures exists as it does in any town with a pulse, it’s just you don’t know anyone by name.

A day worn out, flashes of Déjà vu mix in with an ale induced buzz, the evening is on it’s way. Pizza lights blink and hoodies are thrown on, puzzle pieces come together and it’s feeling good to be yourself, knowing you fit the groove, living as if you’re at home. Perhaps you are out here on the volcano in the Indian. Ceci est universelle.

For more, killvan.com

by Tetsuhiko Endo

One of my many fond memories of drinking excessive amounts of rum finds me in front of an old Scottish castle, on banks of Loch Lomond chasing sheep through a field while wearing a Men’s Warehouse bespoke suit.  I learned an indispensable life lesson that night: never underestimate ungulates.  A crook was what I needed, but I was, instead, holding a bottle of Pusser’s Rum which is the same stuff that kept the British navy staggering around the poop deck for over three hundred years.  All things considered, it worked out great for them.  Less so for me.  I assuaged my disappointment as not catching any sheep by jumping into the loch, which, let me tell you was some pretty raw business, but not really important to us right now.

The point is rum — one of the few spirits that actually tastes better when swigged straight from the bottle.  To do so with Vodka brings back long blocked-out memories of teenage excess.  A pull off a bottle of Scotch or Bourbon in anywhere but the secrecy of your own home will be expensive and inevitably draw the sideways glances of America’s new breed of liquor snobs (or “drinkies” as they have no doubt named themselves on their ironic Facebook pages and blogs,) and then you will be forced to waist your hard won tipple by pouring it on them in disdain.  Straight gin is about as nice as embalming fluid, liqueurs are too sweet, rye is too fiery, brandy too esoteric, and cognac completely acceptable if you are at least a baron within the dwindling circle of French nobility.  Tequila is the only other drink you can swig with any swagger but in the English-speaking world, it lacks rum’s historical cachet, so we’ll leave it for another day.

Rum, according to historian Wayne Curtis, is the only alcohol made from an industrial waste product, i.e.: molasses.  Also called “treacle,” in Britain, it’s a byproduct of the sugar making process and is delicious on cornbread and in cookies.  Certain versions contain minerals and trace vitamins, if you are into that sort of thing.  Fermenting and distilling molasses originated in the colonies of the Caribbean as a way to get rid of vast quantities of the sludge that were just being thrown into the sea or used to make mortar – apparently, the colonial Caribbean was like Candy Land with slaves.  The Spanish called it “ron” the ever contrarian French, who made it from cane juice instead of molasses called it “rhum.”  The etymology of the word is still debated but I prefer the theory that it came from the archaic term “rumbullion” which meant “tumult” “uproar” or “ruckus.”  How much would the classic Wu Tang Clan song have benefited had it been called “Bring the Rumbullion”?  Form the Caribbean, rum spread across the world on English boats.  In fact, the British navy didn’t officially abolish its daily rum ration until July 31^st, 1970, also known as “Black Tot Day”

DISCLAIMER: Korduroy.tv has no affiliation with Bacardi Rum, we just thought the video was cool. Oh, and if you’re under 21 in the USA or under 18 in other countries, close your eyes, rum is bad and you shouldn’t drink it.

The purpose of alcohol is not to get drunk; it’s to make you feel a certain way.  Case in point: the Martini.  Here is a drink in a ridiculous spindly glass made of pure gin with a dash of fortified wine (vermouth) and of all things, an olive thrown in.  When was the last time you voluntarily drank anything in which “olive” was an ingredient?  And yet, it’s wonderful – you know why?  Because James Bond drinks Martinis.  So did Humphrey Bogart and Winston Churchill.  Jack London drank them in between writing about dogs in Alaska and surfing in Hawai’i, Hemingway drank them by the pitcher, FDR drank them and won WWII…and when you drink one, you join this illustrious club and get to bask in all their wonderful connotations (albeit in a shallow and fleeting way) for as long as it takes you to regally sip the nasty stuff.  What a cheap and wonderful escape from life’s daily exigencies.

The pedigree of rum drinkers skews decidedly more working class, but that’s the point.  You can’t drink a martini while crossing the Cook Straight on a rough day, or while sitting in the bed of a fruit truck on your way across the boarder between Nicaragua and Costa Rica.  But a bottle of rum is the ideal companion for such pursuits.  George Washington was a rum drinker (Barbadian rum being his favorite) and so was Paul Revere.   Hunter S. Thompson loved the stuff, although you really want to pick and choose how much you emulate a guy who shot himself in the face with a shotgun.

Rum is the drink of the rough and the ready: Sailors, smugglers, soldiers, pirates and all other miscreants who thumb their nose at polite society to dance on the edge of something a little more wild.  Maybe not the type of person you want to be every day, but a fine legacy to borrow for a bottle or two – at the beach, around a campfire, on a long journey or a lonely sail.  Or you can just take a swig wherever you are and be reminded of past adventures – your own, and those of others — in one fiery swallow.

Tetsuhiko Endo has lived on four of the seven continents. He enjoys straight liquor, but can’t play pool or gamble to save his life.  He has never tried a cigarette but will do almost anything if he thinks it will impress a pretty woman.  Before he started writing, he worked at an office in Downtown Manhattan and taught break dancing to street children in Uruguay, though not at the same time. He’s a competent singer but atrocious at subtraction.  He finds women’s magazines fascinating.

It’s been over a year and half since we’ve launched and a lot has happened in those 18+ months. Personally producing over 200 shorts, 3 documentaries, numerous bill-paying commercials, attending film festivals, traveling, nurturing a long distance relationship, and trying to surf in between has been full-on… Needless to say, more than a few things have slipped through the cracks, so I’ve focused on slowing down and taking care of the basics. Other than sixty-something whirlwind days in Australia, my time’s been filled with  full-night sleeps, eating good food, getting back into photography, reorganizing my office, digging and planting in the garden, and hiking/surfing everyday. As thrilling as powering out work-related projects can be, there’s a unique satisfaction to be had by simply doing the small stuff. After all, I started Korduroy to get back to the rudimentary things in life- not perpetually running around and sleeping with my computer! But such is the way in this modern age and I’ll come up for all the sips of natural air I can get between swimming in the electronic sea of perpetual connectivity.

As for Korduroy, we’ve been working on version 2.0 for a while now and we’ll debut the new website late summer. There’s going to be lots of cool new shit to hook into- I’ll spare the details closer to the relaunch. On other fronts, it also looks as though I’m going to be able to release my documentary “Under the Sun” in the next 6 weeks. I’m really excited to finally be able to get this into your hands as I consider it my best film yet.

When we’re not working on the fun stuff, I’m hustling to meet deadlines for commercials and other paid projects that keep the boat afloat. For any multimedia professional, an up-to-date reel is as obligatory as any business card and with all that’s been going on I haven’t made one in over 3 years (2008 reel – http://vimeo.com/5404808). Truth be told I’ve been avoiding it, I’m much more comfortable making media about people and things other than myself, and a reel is very personal. In the end I took a mix of shots from personal projects and commercial work, and there’s some cameos from surfers like Derek Hynd, Wayne Lynch, Harrison Roach, Ryan Burch, Neal Purchase, Ryan Lovelace, and Kameron Brown to name a few.

Some recent photographys by Cyrus

cape byron view at sunrise shot on a panoramic pinhole camera

rabbit batholmew's son shot on cross processed 35mm

lightning storm on the gold coast

mountain goat in california desert 35mm film

nat young angourie 35mm film

sage joske's quiver

superbank 2005

wayne lynch's wife lyndy's art

Wayne Lynch pinhole camera

SECOND LIFE

Part 2 of 3 – What is valuable for surfing?

While the sport of surfing has progressed to the global arena the roots of its sanctioning body are in Australian sand, and a culture exists like nowhere else on earth. The humble local boardriders clubs and the monthly point score contests have great value as the younger generation is guided, influenced and supported by local Second Life surfers. The value exchange here is honest and with the best of intentions and it happens because of simple passions, for nothing more than the love of wave riding itself. The camaraderie within the close circle of like-minded individuals on the beach is sacred; inside it delivers enriching valuable experiences that last a surfing lifetime.

“We call him the Godfather, he still schools us, he gets the respect”. – Surfer (18) comments on a (40+) club legend.

Second Life surfers are often the administrators of these traditional grassroots activities that engage the broader community, and it’s this sub-cultural leadership that influences younger, and older generations mind you, at a core level. It’s where the value exchange is at its highest and most effective. Second Life surfers for the most part have the respect of the younger generation and their value as an individual is injected directly back into the cycle. It’s a transaction money cant buy.

It’s fair to suggest that the amount of transparent value delivered directly back into the sport of surfing collectively by Second Life surfers is quiet large and very credible.

At last count the domestic contest schedule on Surfing Australia website showed 41 junior contests in Australia in 2011. It’s clear the future of Australian surfing is rock solid, the companies get behind the junior circuits, development programs are progressive and well structured. It’s a well-oiled machine.

Although a very positive situation for First Life surfers wanting to pursue a competitive experience or a professional career, it represents an imbalanced value system. This First Life focus creates a high churn rate within what is perceived as being the majority value stakeholder.

As First Life surfers leave the junior bracket relatively quickly, and subsequently spend more time as a surfer in and around the Second Life bracket, it’s interpreted as a more disposable system. If surfing itself had a voice and could self regulate like something in nature, it would most likely manage itself in a way that encourages organic growth while ensuring longevity and peak performance from it’s more valuable members.

To observe a junior contest today is exciting. Teardrop banners fluttering, a pumping PA, cute energy drink girls and an atmosphere dripping with youth. A heat will be exciting, though if it isn’t the best of the best, the surfing will display incomplete foundations and in general, will lack what a more matured division is capable of. Technically, junior surfers haven’t yet grown to men so their centre of gravity is yet to be locked in, their muscles are not delivering what they will be in a few years, they are yet to hone their power move, the competitive grunt is at the mercy of their balls dropping and a full rail roundhouse will be a more junior version of what a more senior, or should I say matured surfer is capable of. Sort of like tasting a red wine that needs a few more years in the barrel.

To understand the valued components within the skill of wave riding you’ll find them in the sports professional judging criteria. It’s one that has been refined over the years, one that is the benchmark for aspiring First Life surfers.

To watch a dedicated experienced surfer you’ll see the full gamut of value exercised, the fundamentals are mastered, the positioning poise and personal style are on display and the repertoire diverse, which is why the CT is the main event. Surfing has never been a spectator’s sport, but as we know it’s changing course and like tennis we’d like to see the best on centre court. The issue here is that the centre court of surfing only happens 11 times a year for the elite, domestically it’s sadly a diluted representation of Second Life value.

If it were simply about the skill of wave riding the roster of Second Life activity would see a plethora of Second Life events and an even distribution of surfers to have stickers on their boards.

So if there is an imbalance, and what is available for Second Life surfers is minimal, is there anyway to even up this lopsided seesaw?

Part 3 of 3 – Take the Power Back

To suggest that the grassroots club and Second Life surfers have a responsibility to manage up might not seem so outrageous, I mean, Second Life Surfers are the majority value stakeholder anyway right?

A thread of managing up could look something like a local club approaching the state body, then on to the national body to the top of the tree at the ASP.

Perhaps it’s the state and national bodies that are responsible for managing up as they administer the grassroots movement. Whatever the case, the ASP have undergone changes to suit the evolving demands of the sport, and notably it’s the surfers who have pushed for change. Not surprisingly those ASP Surfer Representatives are all from the Second Life division.

Would it be wrong to think that common credible Second Life surfers also have a Surfer Representative role to play and should address pending issues from within their grassroots stable? If there is imbalance in the value system of surfing why shouldn’t the most valuable asset be able to rectify it?

All sports are a democratic train ride, so perhaps it’s more of a control issue, and any attempt at restoring value needs to be presented to the Fat Controller. The most obvious Fat Controllers are the more powerful identities in the sport – the companies that sell the surfing lifestyle. We can identify where their value is placed via their brand proposition and activity. For the most part a large component of any brands activity is to use influential peer group leaders eg: professional surfers. These surfers have reached this status as they exercise the highest skill in wave riding, ideally representing what the sport of surfing should be about.

“Grom comp, grom fest, grom search, Small Fries, Teenage Rampage… How about ‘Surfers In Their Prime’ contest?!” – Surfer (29) expresses his frustration at the domestic competition opportunities.

Those surfers who have perfected the skill of wave riding are ambassadors for companies that pursue a business agenda, which at days end is growth of a financial bottom line. This small number of professional athletes delivers a large amount of value to these companies for the purpose of bettering a financial position; it’s this position that dictates where the value in surfing will be. As the surf lifestyle consumer wins the attention of a surf company with its influential Sasquatch footprint, their value will remain the more attractive to a surf company’s financial bottom line, and as the bottom line is very hungry it will get fed first.

Where on the other hand the common credible Second Life surfer injects their value as a surfer, directly back into the grassroots cycle as mentioned earlier. While this articulates the imbalance of surfing’s value system it creates a divide between the Second Life surfer and the power brokers of the sport of surfing, as they have a different way of utilizing their value set.

You know it’s not ludicrous to propose Second Life surfers can create their own culture, a movement that is simply about the skill of riding waves. The amount of credibility and talent that lie inside and above the Senior Life age division is on display when you stroll your local. They might be wearing a wetsuit that is a few seasons old and Adidas trackies, but who will you stop and watch, a bunch of kids in a rip bowl shorebreak or a Second Lifer out the back hacking up a set wave?

If it’s bigger more consequential surf there wont be a First Life surfer in the line up, you’ll have no choice.

So Second Life surfers, proudly paddle out knowing your version of skill on a wave is the most valuable component of modern shortboard surfing, your value is beyond what this dichotomy suggests. If you are a First Life surfer it’s still about respect, so no changes there. To the Third Lifers, keep regular and keep stretching.

To be a Second Life surfer is to share the experiences from a dedicated life of perfecting the skill of wave riding. Only a Second Life surfer knows that feeling.

Written by Jay Killvan  – Surfer/Journalist/Photographer/Creative

Jay Killvan is a surfer from Cronulla, Australia. With pursuits ranging from journalism, various design disciplines and photography, he is often sleep deprived. A desire for raw adventure has led Jay to pursue big episodes in remote corners of the world, engaging in foreign cultures, unique people and the best waves possible. With work published in numerous publications, Jay Killvan continues to evolve. Read more from Jay at www.Killvan.com

If you missed Part 1 of Second Life, read it here.

SECOND LIFE

Part 1 of 3 – Where is the value in surfing today?

Now this could be tough, a bit of a rabbit hole you could say. But to make a start we could toss up a few loose suggestions, like maybe it’s the sanctioning body, possibly the top 5 surfers or even within the most stable company?

“I’d trade all my airs to do a proper functional roundhouse like yours”. - First Life surfer to a Second Life surfer after the NSW State Titles.

To begin, let’s create some new terminology within the demographics, simply to structure the point of view. In respect to seniority we’ll start with Third Life surfers, an older more refined generation of surfers around 45 years plus. They have seen more swells than the rest of us have had baked dinners. Knocking on their door are those in and around the 28 year old vintage, the Second Life surfer, fighting off father time in peak physical condition, and hopefully, still progressing. At the bottom of the food chain we have those under 18 years of age, First Life surfers. Little urchin types with cheeky demeanor that hide under the house when it gets big. These are the three age brackets that democratically put each of us in our place at our local beach.

To be a good surfer requires dedication, it’s one pursuit that takes a long time to get any good at. Experience also plays a big part, which suggests that the more experience you gain the more progress you make. So this gives a dedicated and experienced surfer some value to surfing. But both the surfer and surfing are generalized terms so lets define them.

We have ‘recreational wave riding’ and the ‘sport of surfing’. Lets assume your focus is on the sport of surfing, high performance modern short board surfing where the rate of progressive change is greatest. By doing this we leave those who are offended by the thought of surfing becoming a mainstream sport on the beach (and possibly quiet a few from each of the three age groups).

By definition dedicated Second and Third Life surfers have theoretically obtained a large amount experience enabling their version of wave riding to have reached advanced status. To make an assessment of the sport and its participants has these two age groups obtaining credible value, as it’s comprised of advanced surfers with more experience than First Life surfers.

The Second Life surfer and their portion of value are of interest, as they are physically more in optimum condition than Third Life surfers.  Knowing the average age of surfers on the CT is roughly 28 it suggests that this portion of value is no doubt the greatest in surfing demographics. So it would be valid to expect that the focus of the sport of surfing and industry would be on and around the Second Life.

“He is surfing better than he ever has. He is doing the moves that these kids are doing, but with more speed, more style and way more power. He is inspiring these kids, I am inspired!” Surfer (32) commenting on Surfer (37) in a carpark on the South Coast.

Professional surfers in their Second Life are getting more attention in recent times, largely due to the progression and highly publicized results from those who are well passed the competition age bracket of Senior Men’s, 28 plus. (I’ll address this dysfunction of titles in a moment). While it’s easy to make exceptions to those who win 10 world titles exemplifying sheer superiority as an athlete, it does set the threshold of what is possible and filters on down through the community. The value of a surfer over the age of 28 has increased dramatically in recent times… so you’d think.

A friend of mine is 36 and just learned how to nail air reverses, already 8 years past the Senior Men’s division, he resides in the next age division, the over 35’s. ‘Senior’ suggests a much older person in society, and you’d think that ‘senior’ would hold relevant value, though much like the forgotten granny in the nursing home I am not sure this is the case.

Maneuvers are but one of the elements that form a surfing approach. What determines how well a surfer performs the skill of wave riding is made of numerous components such as flexibility, strength, bravado, timing, agility and endurance, and executed by using patience, knowledge and wisdom to name a few. As a whole these components, maneuvers included, equate to a complete surfer. To propose that a surfer’s true value is best realized when the total of all components are delivered together would not be unreasonable.

One of the most important components to a surfing approach are the fundamentals, and like most things in life if the fundamentals aren’t sorted the end result will be less than classic. It’s the foundation to build a technically superior approach from. All world champions have classic interpretations of the fundamentals and giving clarity to this point is that the average age of a world champion is very close to the Second Life age.

Again, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to suggest that the Second Life demographic obtains a lion’s share of tangible value. So the Second Life surfer is on pole position with all the right assets in peak condition, but does it correlate with the focus of the surf media and where the industry places the majority of its support?

In part two of Second Life, we investigate how the Second Life surfer delivers their value set, and isolate why there may be a serious imbalance in surfing’s value system.

Written by Jay Killvan – Surfer/Journalist/Photographer/Creative

Jay Killvan is a surfer from Cronulla, Australia. With pursuits ranging from journalism, various design disciplines and photography, he is often sleep deprived. A desire for raw adventure has led Jay to pursue big episodes in remote corners of the world, engaging in foreign cultures, unique people and the best waves possible. With work published in numerous publications, Jay Killvan continues to evolve. Read more from Jay at www.Killvan.com

Read Parts 2 & 3 of Second Life here.

by Jamie Brisick (http://www.jamiebrisick.com)

At the risk of being a bubble burster, myth debunker, anti-Endless Summer campaigner, and monkey wrench tosser into the spokes of the wheel that spins the surf fantasy, I’m here to tell you that things are not always what they seem, that these idyllic surf trips you see in the magazines often involve smoke and mirrors, a little cutting and pasting in the editorial department. Let me put it another way. What appears to be a week, a month, or even a season of epic conditions can in actual fact have been only a few hours, or in the case of our story, about forty-five minutes.

We’re going back to 1988 — a time of industry abundance and eternally runny noses; a time of Occys, Currens, Carrolls, Op riots, lycra boardshorts, neon noses and big hair; a time of AIDS, Ayatollahs, Reagans and Gorbachevs; a time when mustard yellow Walkmans played INXS, Eurythmics, Duran Duran, Midnight Oil, Big Audio Dynamite, The Cure, Culture Club, Wham, Frankie Goes To Hollywood, et al. I’d been a pro surfer for about a year at that point, done a few legs of the ASP tour, but been on only one proper “photo trip” (a week long excursion to Isla Natividad with Flame where I was so nerve racked — in my little mind the trip was so big time — that I caught rails and cartwheeeled and kooked out to the point of being unshootable). So when the call came from photographer Robert Beck asking me to join him on a week long, mag-endorsed photo trip to a spot in Brazil notorious for sand bottom, aqua blue barrels, I was in.

I arrived the morning after the week-long, round-the-clock-party of Carnaval had finished, which meant the entire city was nursing a hangover. Surfer Brazil editor Carlos Lorch met me at the airport. He was a few years older and a bit more suit and tie-ish than what you’d expect from a surf mag editor, but he was passionate and proud of his city. Before dropping me at my hotel, he gave me a tour of the local surf spots, which, for the most part, were sandy stretches of beach with big, sloping rocks at either end creating a bounce effect. We checked Joatinga, Sao Conrado, Pepino, Leblon, and Arpoador, Rio’s most historic wave. Carlos told me the story of Aussie Peter Troy who came to Rio ’64 and turned the Arproador locals onto modern surfboard design. Prior to this they were riding hunks of wood. Troy’s visit helped kick off the birth of the industry, starting with boards and evolving into trunks, wetsuits, clothing, sunglasses and all the rest, including Surfer magazine’s Brazil edition, a symbol of high tide in the global surf economy (Surfer Brazil folded a few years later).

After a couple of sandwiches and a coconut water at Arproador, Carlos dropped me at my hotel, a modest high rise a few blocks in from Ipanema Beach. I unpacked my things, dipped into a bar of chocolate from the mini-fridge, and waited for Beck, who showed up in the late afternoon. Beck was in his mid-30s and married with a kid. He’d only recently started shooting for Surfer and was hoping to make this a breakthrough trip. I was in the same situation, but on the other side of the lens. We discussed this over a coffee in the hotel restaurant, then strolled to the beach to watch the sun set.

That evening we had dinner with Carlos and the four Brazilians we’d be traveling with to Noronha. Adrian was tall, friendly, and spoke great English, which was a huge plus (neither Beck nor I spoke a lick of Portuguese). He would be writing our story for Surfer Brazil. Paulo, Jorge, and Magnus were pro surfers. They appeared to be great guys but because of language issues, all we could do was smile and flash the odd shaka. We ate pizza and drank beer at a cafe along Avenida Atlantico, the strip of high rises you see behind Copacabana Beach.

Fernando de Noronha is a chain of volcanic islands that sit a few hundred miles off the northeast coast of Brazil. Once a prison, it’s since become a military owned nature reserve oozing in marine and wild life, which, in turn, attracts a steady stream of hiking boot-clad nature buffs from around the world. But they’re smart about protecting Noronha’s fragile ecosystem — with only one flight in/out per week, visitors can stay a maximum of 14 days. To get there from the US you fly first to Rio, then Recife, and then out to Fernando de Noronha, in this military green, duo-propeller number straight out of WWII.

Under different circumstances, Fernando de Noronha may have been far more illuminating. If I was a climber I’d have had plenty of ascents to keep me well-occupied. If I was with a girlfriend I could have spent my days sunning, sexing, and occasionally swimming on a secluded beach. If I was a nature lover I could have bird watched, snorkeled, or even swam with dolphins But I was none of the above. I was a surfer on a business trip. And I wasn’t about to get sidetracked, even if that meant becoming the blinders-on, where’s-the-nearest-7-11? American I now try to avoid.

I did not participate in the forro dancing that went on each night in the bar, a legs entwined, folkloric hop that Robert described as “dry humping to music.” I did not hike, rock climb, scuba dive, snorkel, windsurf, swim with dolphins, have sex or even engage in language-hurdled conversation with the locals.

What I did do is surf about six hours a day, listen to my walkman, stretch, read Pat Riley’s book about the Lakers’ breakthrough season, creatively visualize making love to a girl I’d recently met back home, psychically attempt to summon the wave, wind, and sun gods (a combo that could rightfully be called the “photo trip gods”), and more or less exist in my own little bubble.

(Over time I would come to discover this is standard behavior for a pro surfer on a photo trip. As easy as it for the young athlete to fall into the kid-in-a-candy-shop mentality, to lose sight of the mission at hand, it’s essential to preserve oneself for the big moment, if and when the big moment comes. How this is best achieved depends on the individual. There was a handful of guys on tour with boundless energy and iron constitutions. They could party all night and still be up at dawn, ready to surf three heats throughout the day if need be. The most memorable of the bunch was Aussie Rod Kerr, who left me with an indelible impression. During a heat in Zarautz, Spain, Kerr caught a head high wave from out the back, weaved his way through to the inside, then, in the presence of eager fans, proceeded to puke his guts out while trimming through the shorebreak).

The first three days it rained from dawn till dusk, making it impossible to shoot. The orange hued coves we’d seen flying in were now a murky, photogenically-challenged gray. The waves were decent enough — head high peaks doing that same ricochet number I saw in Rio. We surfed a spot called Cacimba do Padre, a left that bounces off a pair of chocolate colored volcanic rocks that resemble a pair of melting Hershey’s kisses or a dark-skinned woman’s pointed boobs, depending on your mood. We surfed Conceicao, the beachbreak in front of our hotel that broke like Huntington, Hebara, Manly, Lacanau, Hossegor, and Biarritz, spots I’d be visiting later that year for contests, and I imagined it as such, holding 20-minute heats with myself, riding each wave like my entire career depended on it.

On the morning of Day Four we woke to sunny skies and light offshore winds. The bad news was that the swell had all but disappeared. It was knee high and absolutely perfect. Triple overhead for GI Joe, but a cruel, perverse joke as far as we were concerned. We spent a good portion of the day lounging about the beach at Cacimbo do Padre, hoping the incoming tide would deliver something. But it never did, and on the walk back to the hotel, Beck made the comment that we were halfway through the trip, and he’d yet to shoot a single frame.

The surf came up for the next two days, and the sun poked its head out from behind patchy clouds, enough to get a couple rolls off. But it was only head-high and could just as easily have been Oceanside or Huntington on any average summer day and this was by no means what we’d traveled halfway across the world for. I was, however, deeply impressed with the amount of energy and overall spirit in Paulo, Jorge, and Magnus’s surfing. They huddled close to the rock and used the wedge to fling themselves down the line. They pumped with ferocity, committed major rail to their turns, and milked their waves right to the shore. Even the tempo of their paddling showed a hunger beyond what you’d find at Trestles or Rocky Point or Narrabeen or any other aggro spot. And yet they were laid back and unassuming on the beach, Jekyll and Hyde’s.

That evening Beck called a meeting, and at 8 pm sharp, the six of us gathered at the hotel bar to discuss our predicament. “Here’s what we’re dealing with,” said Beck. “We’ve got one and a quarter days left, we’ve shot only two and a half rolls of film, and quite frankly, we’ve got nothing. Unless we wake up to full-blown perfect conditions, we’ve wasted our time here. That said, I propose we stay another week.”

Adrian translated to Paulo, Jorge, and Magnus and then, after a long silence, chimed in with his reasoning. “March is best time for Noronha. We got bad luck this last week. Next week we get good luck.” He repeated as much in Portuguese and within seconds I had the entire clan pleading with me to change my ticket and stay another week.

I’d reached a meditative groove with my days — surf, stretch, listen to Walkman could just as well have been chop wood, carrry water, talk story around the campfire. But I had to get back to a quiver of new boards and an appointment with the Aussie consulate to insure my visa, which I explained. This came as a disappointment to Robert, not because I was a joy to be around but because of industry politics. There were four surfers on the trip — three Brazilian and one American. The Brazilians were sponsored by Hang Loose, a leading clothing company in Brazil but a non-advertiser in the US mags, which deflated their value in the trip not because they lacked talent but purely because of these odd financial dynamics, which was all news to me. I, on the other hand, was sponsored by Quiksilver and Rip Curl, two of Surfer’s biggest advertisers. By association, my stock suddenly sky rocketed. I became A-list. Robert explained to me as much, adding that without me, the trip would never fly in US mags, hence the weight was on my shoulders. It was a bitter pill to swallow after having my ego jacked up on what I thought was camaraderie and incredible matesmanship, but I stuck to my guns and announced that I would leaving the following day. This led to an alcohol-fueled bonding-of-the-bros, which goes down as my second fondest memory of the trip.

Funny things happen when you loosen your grip and surrender to fate. I experienced this later in my career, or rather after my career, when I officially resigned from competition and subsequently found myself surfing better than ever, and I experienced it here when I shirked my “serious athlete” armor and threw myself into the Fernando de Noronha mix, knocking back cachaca and beer with the lads until well past midnight. The following morning, shortly after 8 AM, Beck came barreling into the room, rifling through drawers.

“Get up! It’s on. Get your shit together. Quick!”

I grabbed my board, a towel and a bottle of water and beelined for Cacimbo do Padre, trailing behind the overzealous Beck. We skirted through a tunnel of trees, high jumped rocks, and waded through a small river. Ten minutes later we were staring into the line-up.

There were waves all right, a couple feet overhead at least. And the sun was shining, the sky cloudless. The problem was the A-frame peaks we’d surfed the last six days had now become one big close out, the kind of waves you’re more likely to bodysurf than surf. But there was Beck, tearing through his case like a madman, rushing and panting like it was perfect Backdoor.

“There’s no shape, ” I said as yet another one dumped.

“Oh yeah. That’s what you think.” He pulled a camera and a housing from his bag and held it up for me to see. “This here’s a water housing. And this is an extremely wide-angle lens. If we can line up in one of those barrels with about ten feet of distance between us, no one will know the difference.”

The paddle out was rough. Beck and I caught four or five pounders on the head, with only waist deep water under us. We ragdolled, wore sand, and eventually made it out the back on a lull.

“Remember: Ten feet. No more, no less,” ordered Beck, kicking his feet and floating backward toward the impact zone.

A sapphire wall marched in. I gauged my distance from Beck — about 25 feet. The wave was a wall, a drop in/pull into the tube/get pummeled affair. I spun around, stroked, hopped to my feet, clawed the wall, and leered at the camera as the thing swallowed me. It was a glorious sight — like a slowly clenching fist of glass, with Beck about ten feet away, the two of us sharing the same little hole. I felt a pocket of air lift my board and then the spin cycle. I then felt Beck’s elbow, back, feet and hands; an underwater wrestling match. I was worried that my board could be skewering him. When we came up Beck was laughing. “Got it! Beautiful. Now go do that again.”

I paddled back out and waited. There was a long lull. I looked at my watch. I had to be out of the water in exactly eighteen minutes. Another one came. This time I was thinking pig dog. I sprint-paddled into position for the left. I dropped in, grabbed my rail, and pulled into an awkward, warbly backhand tube. Again, Beck was right in position. And again, he came up laughing.

I caught four or five more before our time was up. I exited the water with exactly three hours before my flight would depart. I raced back the hotel, threw my stuff together, caught a cab to the airstrip, and was out of there, my entire Fernando de Noronha experience behind me, a 20-something hour flight nightmare in front of me.

A couple months later Surfer magazine ran a major feature on our trip, making it look like some idyllic epic wave locale. Then about a month later the same story ran in Brazil, then France, and then Japan. We couldn’t have hit the photo trip jackpot harder and my sponsors were stoked. And I’m sure the Brazilians and their sponsors were stoked. But despite the blazing blue skies and heaving, crystal clear barrels and Land of the Lost backdrops and all the other shit that makes something on the other side of the world look 100 times more alluring than whatever’s at home, I knew the real truth.

Words by Tetsuhiko Endo & Illustration by Dan Madison

Cachaça is a Brazilian alcohol made from fermented and distilled sugar cane juice mixed with the tears of child laborers. Just kidding — the child laborers work in the fields so their tears aren’t allowed anywhere near the stills. This year, it’s the new it drink in New York City. I know this because I was cornered by the PR girl for a American cachaça importer at a bar recently and that’s what she told me as she dumped a shot down my throat. “This is, like, the new it drink.” It tastes like bathtub rum with subtle top notes of exploitation and self loathing.

There’s a massive bottle of it sitting in my kitchen, gracias to my roommate who got it from another PR person from another cachaça importer. I mix it with Monster Energy Drink based on the vague notion that two wrongs will make a right. Usually they don’t, but they do get me jacked up while I trawl through Internet surfing clips.

On a recent cachaça monster-fueled binge, I ran across this clip showing Stephanie Gilmore, Owen Wright, Mick Fanning, and Matt Wilkinson fulfilling contractual obligations at the Sunway Lagoon in Kuala Lumpur, a Malasian city known for it’s shopping, night life, and prostitution. The clip features Matrix bullet-time-style camera tricks, flashy new board-shorts bizarrely marketed as “like wearing nothing,” and chest high chlorinated waves of such high quality, it costs you a $32.00 entrance fee to surf them. That price includes access to other parts of the amusement park, and presumably pays for the Malaysian man on the jet ski who whips you into waves.

The video raised more questions than it answered so I refilled my cup and got to pounding them keys. Punching “wave pools” into google is like searching for “cold fusion,” “Bobby Fisher” or “Loch Ness Monster” — every link is filled with history from the 80’s, outrageous claims that have yet to come to fruition, lots of apocrypha, and the occasional famous person. The list of hacks who have built bathtub models of the machine that would revolutionize surfing makes a standard junior high science fair look like the short list for the Nobel prize. Not that there is anything wrong with junior high science fairs. Those kids are the scientists of tomorrow. Wave pool inventors, on the other hand, typically fade into obscurity, with the rare exception of what’s his name who invented that era defining contraption, the Flow Rider.

I read a few general articles, then opened this video of Kevin Roberts’ “Surf the Ring.” Please watch it to appreciate the full extent of his radness. Fair notice: you are about to irrevocably lose five minutes of your life watching “surfing revolutionized forever.”

I don’t know about you, but I was left with a couple of nagging questions. For instance, “why would I want to surf in a chlorinated circle?” “Did Roberts not think to write his commentary down before recording it?” And “what the fuck is ‘speed surfing’”

Not everyone viewed the ring with the same skepticism. A few clicks later, I found an interview from last year with the decent surfer and unapologetic Nikola Tesla fan, Robert Kelly Slater. It started out with pretty standard stuff: Surfing needs to market itself better…shaping your own boards is the way forward..long swig of cachaça monster as my focus begins to wander… Then, wham: “We need to make wave pools good enough to compete in, and by this summer we’ll have them.” Say what? “We’ve been working on this for more than three years, and we’re building our test model in L.A. as we speak. Once we have the technology, we can potentially build these pools all over the world. I’m already thinking ahead, beyond pools, to how we can create a wave-generating system and sink it into lakes,” You want to drop stuff into lakes? “as long as it doesn’t screw up the environment. Eventually, I’d love to see a Tour that incorporates a couple of stops on these waves.”

So while I had looked at ol’ Kevin Roberts and sneered, Slater saw only possibilities. I scrolled down the page with a mounting sense of dread, hoping to find a “Just kidding” at the end. Instead, there was a picture of Slater doing his signature K-9 stare — “How dare you doubt my incredible sincereness!”

“We would be able to schedule a contest on Friday at 6 p.m., live on TV. Picture a wave going around in a circle indefinitely. There’s a bridge over the wave for viewing, a Plexiglas bottom so fans can watch guys surf above them, and a crow’s nest in the middle so people can watch the best guys in the world surf the wave all the way around them. Kids could stand on the edge of the pool and get sprayed by their favorite surfers.”

Kelly Slater, you sir, are an evil genius.

What other type of person could listen to that cheap, aloha-shirted pantywaist preaching the virtues of increased “financial rewards,” “the next big spectator sport,” and “a NASCAR-type environment.” and think “Yea! that’s what surfing needs — more money and a NASCAR environment.”

“Madre mía,” I muttered to myself, as the fear took hold. Plexi glass floors, box seats, kids rushing down to the edge of the pool to get face shots every time Dane Reynolds throws his fins out, dolphins and killer whales doing synchronized shows to foul, euro-techno that ripples the top of people’s ten-dollar cachaça monsters (or cachaça Redbull, or cachaça coke…the possibilities are endless). Megatron replays, cheerleaders, drunken Midwesterners watching, glassy-eyed, before being lead away by their spawn to the water slides…sweet Jesus, techno…

As a competitive beast, it was easy to see how all this talk of stadiums and NASCAR attracted Slater. It’s the logical evolution of competitive surfing to create a rational, uniform “court” for all surfers to have an equal opportunity to perform in. Think of the drama. Think of the revenue possibilities!

But what about the rest of us poor slobs who will never make a buck for our bogged turns and a claimed head dips? Well, there would be no time wasted tracking swells, or traveling the coast looking for what spots are working best. No buying tickets to far off countries and screwing around with money grubbing natives and rare tropical diseases. No waiting out long lulls in the ocean or paddling endlessly for middling results. No sharks, no currents, no rogue waves, no sharp reefs, no cleanup sets…no substantial unknowns of any kind, come to think of it.

Surfing a wave pool would be a completely safe, homogenized, government approved, company sponsored, family friendly, risk averse outing for people who have so much disposable income and so little self respect that they’ll drop seventy bucks on board shorts that are made to simulate the feel of not wearing board shorts and another thirty to do ride something they can ride for free in the ocean.

It was getting late, but something about the wave ring kept eating at me. It reminded me of something, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, so I mashed my keyboard a bit more, tumbled down a couple more rabbit holes, and eventually found myself watching this video of the “It’s a Small World” (clip below) ride in Disneyland. There it was, a water ring amusement ride, bang in the middle of a shiny theme park where it costs money to breathe, and everything is stamped with a logo, and the merchandising options are limitless, and there’s no telling the real people with their ironed-on smiles from the animatronic ones that do a little song and dance so that somewhere, in a high rise in New York City, a profit margin creeps upward and everyone in the company can afford their rent for another month…

But I digress. which one was I talking about again? It doesn’t matter, there’s no use fighting the march of technology. The only thing to do is pour yourself a stiff one and watch the revolution unfold. It will, by the way, be televised — 6 p.m. on Friday nights.

About the author & illustrator:

Tetsuhiko Endo has never been to Hawai’i, surfs with a hunch, and can count the number of times he has pulled out of barrels. The only thing that qualifies him to write about surfing is that he grew up right next to the world headquarters of Hollister, in Columbus, Ohio. And his mind is slightly askew. That helps things along. He writes for SURFER Magazine, National Geographic, the New York Times, the Surfer’s Path, Huck, and 3sesenta. Read his article about women’s surfing at http://www.theinertia.com/business-media/no-girls-allowed/

Illustration by KorduroyTV’s own Dan Madison. Check out Dan’s website at http://www.madisondraw.com/

In the 1970′s you could tour a new surf movie around Australia for a couple of years and draw a constantly large audience, even though you had no advertising budget. Wind the clock forward 30 odd years and you’d be lucky to tour it around Australia at all.

How can this be happening?

Have a look around.

Right now on the Internet you can watch the latest hero footage with hero surfers and hero music shot in premium locations for free. Have a look at some of these video’s and some of them have only been watched by a couple hundred people, no more. One that springs to mind is David Rastovich and Derek Hynd surfing finless fun on merseabeaucoup.com , unbelievable free content and a cracker soundtrack to boot.

You can tune into a number of sites and see the latest interview with legends like Mickey Munoz and Gerry Lopez, it’s free to view and it’s something ten years ago we would have paid to look at. This whole free internet stuff is NEW to us as a species. In our long and winding past, when someone provides a good or service, they get paid. We should be paying now, but the Internet is delivering surfers so much amazing FREE content that it makes you wonder, how can everyone be giving it away?

Where does that lead us with surfing content?

But today they have to give it away in order to compete with all the free shit out there. If there was a plumber out there giving away his services to fix your toilet, then the other plumbers would also have to be free. This scenario would lead us to a future with a generation not interested in being plumbers. Does this mean that the days of highly shot professional surfing films are going to die? Not at all. Well, maybe not yet.  The independent film makers may well fade away though because they cannot get their money back that they put into it. For now this is not happening. There are plenty of young talented surfers and artists out there prepared to put their life and soul into making something beautiful for no financial reward.  I do not understand how people have the time to be able to run a website/blog and provide/create interesting content in their own time and let people look at it, for free.

Who is funding the fantasy? Are people out there working their tits off to make a living and then in their spare time thinking, I will make something on surfing and hope people come and watch it for free? How long will it go on?

Maybe the independent art house surf films will die…maybe be will be left with big budget corporate cheese and amateur home video’s shot on crappy digital as the only two options.

It is the ‘facebook era’ and people are happy to create something in the hope they will get people to click ‘thumbs up’ or maybe, just maybe they will spend one minute of their precious time to write a ‘comment.’

In conclusion, even the very words you are reading now are for free on a website we all know gives away hero shit for free. I wrote this because I know the guys at Korduroy and I wonder what the hell are they up to? Are they really planning to go on like this? Something tells me they won’t, they’re too smart for that… Time will tell. I’ll be watching…

-WALLACE MCDOWELL

…is what my grandfather used to say.  He was the son of a Russian Marxist immigrant, a football coach, and history teacher at Hollywood High School. Despite his radically left-wing ideals, when the mid 60′s rolled around he hated the whole hippy movement.  This always confused me, but now tend to agree with him.

Disclaimer: I do yoga, I meditate, a veggie garden is in my backyard, I surf, I add green powders to my food, I’m the son of two college professors, one of whom teaches fiber art, I’ve taken a mushroom vision quest in Sedona, and my friends include people in the surfing world who’s picture should be next to the word “hippy” in the dictionary… I am (gulp) a hippy.

The counter culture movement began with German immigrants, who themselves had a “back to basics” revolution at the turn of the 20th century in reaction to the industrial revolution. Their movement spread state-side after some of them came to California, opening health food stores and nudist colonies. After influencing the Beat generation of the Fifties, the whole thing got blown up and commodified in the sixties and has been a joke ever since.

Here’s my beef: we live in a world that’s completely absurd (gourmet dog food boutiques, breast implants, 100 dollar boardshorts) and to take anything seriously, especially yourself, is ridiculous.  Banging a drum on your farm isn’t going to change anything. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to live on an organic farm. But someday when I’m out there in a drum circle with my cosmic brothers and sisters, I’ll be smiling, not because I’m sending healing vibrations to the world but because I escaped the rat race and can do trippy shit like sit in a circle and bang on things!

Searching for the perfect superfood, yoga routine, and massage oil is awesome but is only possible because we live in a society built on the backs of generations of indigenous people. Saying “no” to bacon isn’t going to change that. We’ve all got blood on our hands! Rather than trying to scrub off the blood, lets all laugh at our situation. Humor kills fear and makes room for change. Saving the whales or some other cute species is great, but we’ve got to start with other humans first. You can’t save other humans when you think the majority of them are toxic, zombie, meat murderers!  Food preference and carbon footprints are not grounds for judging other people…honesty, integrity and compassion are. We’re already a wounded society fractured by cultures, generations and divorce. Deep down we long for a return to tribal existence where love was unconditional and time was abundant, but we’re here… a fact that is both tragic and hilarious at the same time.

None of this is going to change over night but if we can look at each other and laugh, we can strip away the pain that’s got everybody so feeling alone. In the end all want the same shit.  So wipe that “holier than thou” smirk off your face and smile. We are believers not knowers.  Everyday we judge each other on what clothes we wear, what car we drive, etc, but if how “green” you are, or how much organic food you buy becomes more another reason for judgement, then we are part of the problem. Eat real food and grow as much of it as you can. What you put in your body is just fuel to love, create and make. Share a massage, meditate, lay in the sun, go for a surf. Love yourself first, then you’ll have plenty to give. Let’s empower ourselves. Let’s reclaim the hippie movement from the hipsters.

-Mr. Stu Pedasol

Our friend, Massa Tom from Costa Mesa, has been a staple on the California longboard scene for the last decade. Never afraid to share his opinion, he offers insight into the subculture that he grew up a part of. Massa Tom is a regular contributor Svrfandestroy blog.

Longboards Rule!!!

No they don’t. We all know they don’t. Even the dude who has the bumper sticker, shirt, hat or coffee mug knows. Longboards have not “ruled” since they were just called surfboards. Unfortunately no one told me this when I was young. All I knew about surfing came from my dad and Bruce Brown.

My dad said shortboarders were “butt- wigglers” and The Endless Summer came out before the shortboard revolution. I think I was in fourth or fifth grade when I saw The Endless Summer II. That shit changed my life. Don’t get me wrong, Pat OConnell was very impressive, but Wingnut stole the show. He was so stylish and smooth. At some point in the film he pulls off a couple of helicopters. I had never seen something like that.

With further encouragement from my dad I got totally into longboarding. I then saw On Safari To Stay starring Wingnut and Joel Tudor. Wow. What a great little film. This was my first introduction to Joel Tudor. Needless to say I was very intrigued. Shortly after I begged my dad to take me down to Kanvas by Katin surf shop in Surfside. I asked the guy working what he would recommend as a good longboard flick. After some brief chuckling from the peanut gallery he referred me to Adrift by J. Brother.

To this day Adrift is my favorite longboard film. It is badass to say the least. There are like five Joel sections in it and the music is refreshing and groovy. By this time middle school was in full effect and no one really surfed. All my friends were boogey boarders. We were unknowingly in the same boat. There was a bodyboard craze going on around the same time as the longboard thing in the early and mid 90s.

In eighth grade I started to progress in my surfing and was getting pretty good at noseriding. Then I was smacked in the face with reality. Surfing is a strange activity done by strange people. I thought I understood the rules but I was wrong. As soon as I got a little better on my longboard I was the center of negative attention. I got flack from shortboarders, old longboarders, bodyboarders, etc. I was fair game for everyone. This was a frustrating time.

I was getting better at surfing and everyone else was bummed. I have to admit that I owned some “Longboards Rule!!!” paraphernalia and if I had some foresight I would have burned that shit then and there. But I didn’t. I continued on the competitive longboard path and had a pretty good time doing it. I rode a lot of more high performance longboards during this time. Riding high performance longboards is fun every once in a while. However, at the end of the day they really just made me want to ride a shortboard.

Why do shortboard tricks on a longboard? Sure, it’s a little challenging at first. But then it just gets boring. Joel’s “ride everything” mentality totally influenced me and I began to shortboard a lot. Virtually all young, modern loggers also shortboard. There is no way around it. Shorter boards are the future. Longboards do NOT rule. Shortboards do. There will always be a place for longer boards. Like Sano, Blackies or Malibu.

No one told me longboarding wasn’t cool. I heard some friends complaining about the competitive longboard scene recently. They were unsatisfied with the prize money in a contest. Why? Of coarse the shortboarders are going to get more money. Competitive longboarding is a joke. Who wants to give their money away to a guy who just pulled a one foot air on a log? Not me. The only thing I would give is a quick chuckle. Phil Edwards, Miki Dora, David Nuuhiwa, and Nat Young!!! These guys ruled. They knew how to ride a log. Re-watch all those old flicks. Those guys were cool. No doubt about it. Dudes doing shortboard maneuvers on longboards, not so much.

Today we are introducing our first guest rant. Up to this point, Cy has been putting some topics on the table. We wanted to get some different perspectives, so enjoy these words from our friend Danimal from Svrfandestroy.com:

In the interest of full disclosure, here is the Readers Digest version of a bio about myself. I work for a giant surf/skate company. I started surfing in 7th grade. The Seedling was my bible in high school. I started Svrfandestroy 3 years ago. I don’t surf as much as I would like to.

Recently, I was at a friend’s house for a birthday party. You’ve been there before, shooting the shit, slamming beers, and hanging in the backyard. I got to talking with my brother’s friend who works construction. He’s telling me about an old salty dog he met on the job. A real sour bastard. Reminds you of the crusty locals you see in the lineup who swear the sandbars will never be the same. They haven’t seen a legitimate swell since the summer of yesteryear. They have seen some shit. They are tired. Hungry. Ready for something. Anything.

The old guy is telling him about life and he sums it up like this:

“Life is a shit sandwich. Eat it, or starve.”

Wow. The guy nailed it.

This got me thinking… so is surfing!

“It’s never been this crowded.”

“Look at all these SUPs.”

“Last summer was warmer.”

“Last winter was better.”

If that is not bad enough, let us not forget the steaming pile of shit in the corner that are yuppies, ass masters, kooks, ho-dads, shoobies, barneys, parking meters, the 909, leashes, giant “surf” companies, sell outs, posers, popouts, hipsters, tight jeans, trends, bougie surf shops, soft tops, surfboards for sale at Costco, and the list goes on.

It is really easy to find so many faults with something you truly love. We hold surfing near and dear to us, so rightfully we protect it by calling bullshit on anything and everything.

So I am asking you to do your part. Vibe someone. Burn a barney who thinks he has a right to paddle into the wave of the day. Get a parking ticket. Yell at a SUP dork that has no business in the lineup. Moon some tourists. Restore some order in this kook infested “sport” we now live with. See you in the water.

-Danimal

Why do we collectively shudder whenever a film or tv commercial tries to use surfing in its storyline? Are we just reactive elitists whose little bubble gets popped whenever someone who doesn’t surf makes an attempt to describe surfing? Or is there some legitimate smell of b.s. wafting into our nostrils?

Case in point, the following Guinness commercial… I loved Jonathan Glazer’s other Guinness ads on different subjects and despite a ton of the “best commercial ever” comments on YouTube, something about this ad rubs me wrong. I can forgive his rearranging of breaking wave shots which show a complete misunderstanding of wave mechanics, and the frat boy bear hugging at the end in tight Duke-inspired ball huggers. But what gets me is the complete contradiction of the “waiting” theme that is throughout their ad campaign. The term “waiting” is used as a thread because it supposedly takes 90 seconds to pour a proper pint of Guinness, but 90 seconds is nothing compared to the amount of time a surfer waits to get a good ride. For instance, how long did it take you to catch your first decent wave (not whitewash dribble, but a real smooth down-the-line ride)? Probably weeks, maybe months? I’m writing this in Chile while visiting my girlfriend who’s studying abroad near Santiago. Next weekend, we’re taking a four day surf trip during what’s supposedly the swell of the season. Even if everything goes to plan (meaning our 6 hour bus ride connects with our ride down the treacherous cliff, and we’re greeted with peeling lefts), how much actual surfing do you think we’ll get? Depending on the crowd and swell consistency, we’ll be lucky to get a few minutes of wave riding for the couple of days when the swells and winds align. In the end, I’ll have sacrificed countless of hours of work and even more time honing my surfing skills to be able to enjoy the experience.

And here’s where I think the surfer’s malaise lies – there is nothing patient about storytelling in the media. It’s life distilled into the most emotional and fantastic bits and good ads need to be immediate and sensational. Surfing isn’t a group hug, and it isn’t a 20 foot, hail-mary drop-in with 10 of your closest friends. That’s why whenever we see a happy ending, perfect ride, or grand moment associated with surfing from non-surfers, it rings false. My concern is the impression ads like these are giving the masses. We’ve already seen the lineups filled with beginners waltzing into the surf with no respect or regard for the lengthy and humbling process that surfing is and I can’t help but wonder if ads like these are the culprit. Here’s an idea… Next time when all of the dudes drop in on each other in the maxing Waimea shorebreak, how about the next scenes depict broken boards and bones, and the surfers embracing each other by carrying each other up the beach after they all collided in the 20 foot toob before being beaten into the sand and held underwater. I think that would be a much more responsible depiction of surfing that would prepare the average Guinness drinker for the real surfing experience.

Ok here it goes, Today’s rant is about entitlement… I don’t like it.

I’ll take it down the line.

1) Newbie Surfers – When I first started surfing, I was afraid to go out where the good guys surfed. And rightly so. I was a danger to them and had no business being out there. It seems like these days there are more and more people out who can’t surf and don’t get that surfing is a dangerous, difficult activity that requires years of patience and humility. The people who screw up the rest of their lives pursuing a harmonious relationship with our fickle and cruel mother ocean should be respected as the ill-fated nuts we are. Don’t get me wrong, I believe that the more people surfing, the better this world be. But they should spend years connecting with the ocean, not mimicking some tv show or billboard. I’m guilty of this to a certain extent. Despite being afraid of the locals, I too paddled out at the main peak prematurely to fulfill some delusional glory quest. During those times, I cheated myself out of a valuable connection with the ocean. That’s why I’m now body surfing in the shore pound more than ever before. The ocean is there to teach us all lessons if we are just open to receiving its gifts, regardless of what level you are at. We are all exactly where we are supposed to be. Pushing the envelope only makes you and those around you suffer. I know from experience.

2) Crusty Locals – I’m an advocate of localism and there needs to be more situations where clueless surfers are put in their place. I’ve also spent a lot of time in localized lineups and the vast majority of locals are cool. They know the wave like the back of their hand, they enjoy surfing with other good surfers and they demand respect. A proper local lineup is the backbone for any positive, organized surfing experience when there’s a crowd. But the “I’ve lived here longer than you…I have birth-rights to these waves ever since I moved here 5 years ago” dorks give locals a bad name and undermine the value of experienced surfers upholding order in the lineup.

3) Rednecks – The simple, no bullshit, family first, tradition-serving, self-sufficient ethos that I associate with the word “redneck” gets fouled when certain members of this stereotype act arrogantly towards others for reasons I’m not going to drag into Korduroy.

4) Hippies – We all dream of building our own utopias and checking out. But like it or not, mainstream society casts a very large shadow and by checking out, we give up our only ability to change things.

5) Self-Righteous Environmentalists – Pretty much anyone who thinks they are the solution is part of the problem in my book. Saving the social and environmental problems we face is going to require inclusive, inspired ideas and there’s no better way to stifle this than with self-righteousness. Arrogance breeds fear and fear stagnates creativity and compassion.

6) Religious Zealots – If religion helps us live better lives and connect with other people who have faith in something greater than themselves then that’s awesome. But if it gives us a pulpit from which to judge others, then that’s lame.

7) Spoiled Perma-kids – I am part of the what they call “the entitlement generation.” I was born a few weeks before 1983 and I belong to a group who grew up in the perfect storm of rampant 80′s consumerism and Dr. Spock spoiled parents who’ve passed it on to us with extra calorie-free sweetness. The result is a bunch of child-like perma-kids who are perpetually pissed that life isn’t the fantasy the media and their parents promised it would be, and who use that to fuel their belief that everything is fucked up and therefore life is not worth giving a shit about.

Conclusion

There’s a little bit of all us in these groups and it’s easy to look at each other and point out what’s not cool like I’ve done in this rant. However its way harder to distill the problems within all these groups and apply them to our own lives. In an age when the vast majority of people are terminally directionless, these groups have the ability to shine truth on the sea over-commodified BS. But when we adopt an attitude of entitlement, we become destructive to ourselves and our surroundings. I feel for everyone these days. We’ve gotten the short end of the stick. We haven’t been prepared for the harsh realities of life. We’ve been disconnected from our ancestry and our natural environment, and we’ve been sold values that are making us sick and tired. It’s my belief that the solution lies in ditching the our resentment and humbly jumping in the deep end, getting our hands dirty, and being apart of this amazing moment in time without feeling the need to control or analyze it. We’ll all become better humans from it, and end up with a way more rad planet.

Video by the talented Tyler Healy who will be a part of our upcoming Short Film Festival at Sacred Craft.