O JAPÃO É UMA ONDA (em Revista Trip)
Posted: January 7th, 2010
Como uma sociedade tão coletivista e metódica consegue se adaptar a um esporte individualista e de improviso?
THE SURF PRINCE OF LONG BEACH (in New York)
Posted: January 7th, 2010Fifteen-year-old Balaram Stack will be the first New Yorker to have a chance on the pro circuit in 30 years. Just how far can a local kid from a wave-deprived backwater ride his talent?
Read more: The Surf Prince of Long Beach – How Fifteen-Year-Old Balaram Stack Made It to the Pro Circuit — New York Magazine http://nymag.com/news/features/35812/#ixzz0bwqN8lL9
REQUIEM FOR SURFING’S BLACK KNIGHT (in LA Weekly)
Posted: January 7th, 2010
If you took James Dean’s cool, Muhammad Ali’s poetics, Harry Houdini’s slipperiness, James Bond’s jet-setting, George Carlin’s irony and Kwai Chang Caine’s Zen, and rolled them into one man with a longboard under his arm, you’d come up with something like Miki Dora, surfing’s mythical antihero, otherwise known as the Black Knight of Malibu.
http://www.laweekly.com/2006-03-02/art-books/requiem-for-surfing-s-black-knight
THE HARD TRUTH ABOUT SURF TRIPS (on Surfline.com)
Posted: January 7th, 2010
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.
DOGTOWN DAYS: MEMORY OF A SKATEBOARDING YOUTH (in LA Weekly)
Posted: January 7th, 2010
I was 10 years old and Dogtown-obsessed. And though I’d yet to actually step foot on a surfboard, I’d seen Super Session twice and had Gerry Lopez’s tube-riding stance so deeply etched in my brain that the vision of a plum tree hanging over the sidewalk at the end of our street was less flora and concrete to me than it was the Banzai Pipeline. My two older brothers and I skated Toe Nails, the Toilet Bowl and the abandoned Jungleland on Logan Earth Skis, Bennett trucks and Road Rider 4s. We listened to Zep, Nugent and Peter Frampton. We wore Vans, OP cord shorts and long-sleeve tees deliberately frayed and oversized because that’s what Alva, Jay-boy, Biniak and Shogo wore. We were middle-class Valley kids trying to look poor, and our scabby knees, puka-shell necklaces and sweat-matted hair parted way off to the side were badges of defiance.
http://www.laweekly.com/2008-08-07/columns/dogtown-days-memory-of-a-skateboarding-youth
HITCHHIKING MOLOKAI
Posted: January 7th, 2010
I’d heard much about Molokai: that it was sleepy, that the locals were friendly and hospitable, that it was one part of Hawaii that had yet to be spoiled, thus I should get there as soon as possible. I also heard that it was fully hitchhikable, which sounded enticing.
NAKAMEGURO (in The New York Times)
Posted: January 7th, 2010ASIA-PACIFIC ISSUE | SURFACING
UP until a few years ago, Nakameguro was best known for the narrow, cherry tree-lined Meguro River, which bisects the neighborhood and draws tourists from all corners of Japan, particularly during the spring festival season. Then came the cafes, restaurants, bars and boutiques, most of which are low-key and laid-back, especially when compared with the hustle and bustle in nearby Shibuya.
Today, Nakameguro has gained a reputation as one of Tokyo’s hippest neighborhoods, a harmonious melding of old and new, urban and rustic…
THE LONG TWIRL: THREE DECADES OF DEREK HYND (in The Surfer’s Journal)
Posted: January 7th, 2010
1984. I was a senior in high school, a two-time WSA West Coast Champ, and a lover of all things Australia. I was sponsored by Rip Curl and Quiksilver, listened obsessively to Midnight Oil, Men At Work, and the Sunny Boys, and very unpatriotically rooted for Cheyne, Bugs, Kong, and Chappy (as opposed to Lambresi, Barr, Buran, and Benavidez.) In confrontational moments with long finger-nailed girls who’d make my heart race, I’d revert to Aussie speak. I used words like “root,” “bushie,” “gangie,” and “kombie.” I sublimated Zuma Beach with an imagined Bondi.
My porthole into this mythical never-never land of Australian surfing was Surfing World magazine, and it was through the stories of Derek Hynd that I would learn about Occy’s violent gouges, Crammy’s screaming cutbacks, and Barton Lynch’s surgical lip pierces. I read about mythical outer reefs in WA, hitchhiking trips between NSW and “the Goldy,” and outlandish, perverse acts at Newport Plus Boardriders Club victory parties. I can still see his clever byline: a cycloptic eye with the words “Hyndsight” beneath it, a multi-layered pun that flew over my head at the time.
I first met him in ’86 when I joined the ASP tour. He was coaching Occy, Gary Green, Wayne Jaggard, Mitch Thorson and a handful of other Billabong-sponsored riders at the time, as well as writing his much-anticipated Top 30 assessments with trademark conviction. He was anti-drug, but had a bent for getting drunk and dancing spasmodically to old punk, namely Joy Division and The Clash. Through Derek’s unforgettable dispatches I would learn the meaning of words like “journeyman” and “bastard desire,” and come to understand that in the game of professional surfing, an unsettled beef with a cruel stepfather or a nasty rivalry with a tourmate can be fuel, i.e., nice, wholesome guys rarely finish first.
In ’88 Rip Curl hired him to coach the team, of which I was a member. I was as excited about a glimpse into his inner workings as I was improving my lackluster results. He kept obsessive, blow-by-blow contest diaries, which he wrote in tiny print. He recorded rides with the visceral animation of an avid finger boarder. A Tom Curren ride would look as follows: TC: 4 ft. left, vert, vert, big vert, float, cutback, snap, closeout float. A rail bog or mistimed turned was simply an “error.” He didn’t score waves with numbers but rather P (poor), A (average), G (good), and VG (very good), with added plus- and minus-signs like they do on school report cards. Occys, Currens, and Potters occasionally scored XLs.
Our one-to-ones at water’s edge before heats were unforgettable, and recall Slugworth in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory seconds after each kid found his golden ticket.
“If you’re not on a wave within the first five minutes, it’s over, James,” he’d whisper with a hand-cupped mouth so my jersey-clad opponent couldn’t hear.
“You’re surfing against Gerr, who’s faster, more powerful, and more flamboyant than you. So your only hope is to get the lead in the first ten minutes then sit on him.” (This was when the priority buoy was in full effect, and starving your opponent for waves was an oft-exploited tactic.)
“Don’t even think about the lefts. It’s rights or nothing. And it’s maximum hits per wave. Bottom turn, crack. Bottom turn, crack.”
He coached Curren, Damien Hardman, Marty Thomas, Wes Laine, Stuart Bedford Brown, John Shimooka, and several others, which was quite genius when I think of it now. By taking blow-by-blow notes of nearly every heat from the early rounds onward, he was perhaps more in tune with the judges than even they themselves were. By the time he got to the crucial Curren or Hardman heats, he knew exactly how they were scoring tubes, length of ride, the lateral vs. the vertical, rights vs. lefts, etc. This is not to mention the fact that he was getting paid on a sliding-scale incentive. Curren needed to get, say, an 5th or above for Derek to be paid, whereas someone like myself needed a 17th or better. If my numbers were correct, he was making a small killing.
He spoke with a slow, measured drawl, and thrived on making controversial, totally-out-there calls. He rarely brushed his hair. He had horrible posture and often slumped in a top-heavy, writer’s stoop, which was kind of revolutionary set against the puffed up, pigeon-chested pros. Often he’d shake his pen at me, which I like to think sprinkled a kind of fairy dust that would later lead me to writing.
And then at the IMB Margaret River Pro he suddenly decided to enter the contest. It came out of the blue. I knew that he still ripped, but he generally did so in the shadows.
In a memorable Surfing World piece he called Occy a “potential fool or potential superstar,” and in a strange sort of manifest, Derek’s lines across Margaret’s machinelike, howling offshore left with spiraling inside section was a potential gimmick or potential contest winner. Where the rest of us hunted the lip, Derek raced for the shoulder, carved low-center-of-gravity roundhouse cutbacks, then, at the apex of the figure eight, did this dramatic, head-tweaking layback on the rebound. It was freakish, poetic, the signature move of a single-eyed eccentric man, and I remember thinking that he might win the contest.
In the final round of trials we found ourselves in the same heat. By this time we’d become good friends. We talked books, music, family, and caramel-skinned, non-English-speaking women. We shared hotel rooms and rent-a-cars. I started out the heat horribly while he found a solid rhythm. We were side by side when suddenly a ten-foot, shimmering teal blue wall headed straight for the two of us. I was on the inside. We both paddled out to meet it. In the heat of hyperfocus and jockeying, Derek blurted out, “Gimme this wave, James, and I’ll buy you fifteen beers.” It was the detail that threw me off. Rather than think, “Fuck you, Derek” and defend my position, I pondered the “fifteen beers” part, the notion of being quotable in frenetic moments, while he of course slithered to my inside. I lost; he went a few rounds further then got KO’d.
Our friendship expanded and I learned. Often we’d be in some cheap hotel room in Hossegor or Ericeira and I’d be doing my stretches while he’d be sprawled stomach-down on the carpet, scribbling out in a single draft whatever profile or contest report for Surfer. It was fascinating to see our traveling circus translated to the page. What was vague and uncertain to me was indisputable to Derek. Nick Wood was not a slightly reclusive guy with a vampish girlfriend who liked to drink, but rather he was “The Phantom” and she was “The Black Widow.”
I was thoroughly impressed when he showed up at the Rip Curl Pro with windswept hair and tales of Transylvania. A Dracula fan, he always wanted to see the place. He’d gone solo, then driven straight through the night to Hossegor. I knew very few people who did this sort of thing.
On a sunny day at the Gunston 500 in Durban he introduced me to a curvaceous, late-twenties blonde. “James, meet my wife.” I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend. His eccentric J-Bay house came soon after, as did his spectacular glass-and-wood palace in Chile.
When I fell in love with a caramel-skinned Sydney girl and relocated to Derek’s hometown of Newport Beach, he was right there, whispering twisted, beautiful, coach-like advice. And when we fell apart two years later he was right there again, picking me up in his powder blue beater Mercedes, taking me to parties, feeding me Cooper’s and reassurance.
If I sound overly gushing I apologize. I’m fresh back from Sydney for the first time in fifteen years. I found Derek at Jack McCoy’s office, located in a non-descript red brick apartment block in South Avalon. His unshaven face was covered in salt and his hair was Albert Einstein-like, but brown not gray. He wore Blundstone boots, faded jeans slung high, and a ragged, logoless t-shirt. He was typically unenthusiastic in his greeting. He did not smile considerately, but when something was funny, he laughed passionately, and when telling a story he painted it with his hands. He’s fifty-two. He wakes up and checks the waves first thing. He recently moved back into the house he grew up in to support his widowed mother. He’s a single, doting, hands-on father.
Most importantly, he does 360s. Lots of ‘em. On finless boards to which he adds ¼” inch fiberglass ridges, he stays extremely low, often grabbing rails, and is essentially at the mercy of the wave. He planes along at dragless hyperspeed, and twirls randomly and frequently, doing more 360s on a single wave than your average surfer does in a lifetime. But more important is the spirit of this weirdness. It looks ridiculously fun. It also looks like something you’d find smiling, Jockey-short clad twelve-year-olds doing on the nose-half of a broken board in deep Mexico.
The boundaries of the mid-life surfer are constantly being stretched. The usual path is big waves, elegant noseriding, or masterful lines. But we’ve never seen anything like this before.
SEND IN THE MARSHALLS (in The Surfer’s Journal)
Posted: January 7th, 2010
It’s the 2006 Malibu Classic and the waves are waist high and lackluster, the couple hundred gathered around the contest site looking slightly bored in the honeyed afternoon light. In a kind of send-in-the-clowns rescue effort, event organizers decide to put on a same-sex tandem heat, which inspires wry grins on the faces of Trace and Chad Marshall. Trace slips into his purple short john, Chad borrows a pair of acid wash cut-offs and a red bikini top from a girl called Soul Mama. They paddle out on a thick longboard and assume position at the very top of First Point. When the wave of the day comes, they spin around, stroke, and hop to their feet. And then in a move that’s more the kind of thing you find atop a gay pride parade float, Trace grabs Chad by the hips and proceeds to dry hump him from behind. He pumps, pumps, pumps and his brother writhes, writhes, writhes. Chad turns around, drops to his knees and proceeds to simulate oral sex on his big brother. Trace reciprocates. The beach is flabbergasted. The garrulous announcer has fallen silent and the teams from Santa Cruz, San Clemente, San Diego and Japan are all in shock. Not since Dora’s famous BA in ’67 has Malibu seen such flagrant perversion across its ruler-edged righthanders.
And then when they hit that bend in inner First Point where the wave seems to be crafted by machine and the image of surfer, pier and Santa Monica Mountains appears as a kind of postcard of the California Dream, Trace lifts Chad above his head and Chad arches his back with a kind of cheerleaderish grace, his arms in swan, his toes perfectly pointed. They hold the pose long enough to draw applause from the entire beach, long enough for the judges to scribble perfect 10s on their score sheets, long enough for their mastery to trump their irreverence.
And that, ladies and gentleman, is but a single ride in the whirlwind shuffle that is being Brothers Marshall.
The Marshall Bros, aka the Gay Brothers, have made a career out of pulling outrageous stunts. Wherever they sniff out taboo in the surfer psyche they attack, attack, attack. They’re court jesters, agent provocateurs, hole-pokers in the stereotype. When surfing went all black wetsuit/clear board in the mid-‘90s it was the Marshalls who sported hot pink and fluoro turquoise. When their fellow competitors turned jockish and traveled with extensive quivers, Trace and Chad showed up to events half-drunk and boardless. When a display of heated machismo broke out during a recent club contest at San Miguel, it was a Marshall who planted a French kiss on the perpetrator, diffusing the fight and bringing mirth to an entire parking lot. When it seems that every beaver tail-wearing, acid splash fish-riding alt-surfer is also a shaper/painter/photographer/musician/filmmaker, Brothers Marshall make a mockumentary taking the piss out of all the above, the innate self-incrimination precisely the point. But then just when their shenanigans seem to upstage their watery prowess, just when the naysayer might accuse them of being all humor and no substance, they’ll paddle out and serve up some of the craftiest, most original longboarding the world’s ever seen.
1982. Jim Marshall is a high school senior surfer/skater from the valley who doesn’t mind a good scrap. At a dive bar in North Hollywood he finds himself shooting pool with Dionne, a hot blonde whose three-dot Mi Vida Loca tattoo suggests a taste for the wild. Beer is swilled, eight balls are banked into corner pockets. And then just when the night’s hitting its stride, Dionne’s C14 Westside boyfriend Psycho shows up with his homeys and proceeds to call Jim out. It’s a dual straight out of Westside Story. Fists fly, bottles break, and pool cues snap. In the end Jim emerges the victor and so begins the courtship of the future Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. A year later Trace is hatched, two years later Chad, and six years later DJ.
Jim takes a job with the LAPD. By the time the boys are seaworthy he’s working Hollywood Vice night shift. Amongst his busts are pimps, prostitutes, raging crackheads and A-list celebrities. He dodges bullets during the Rodney King riots. He still has the scar from when a savage drag queen tried to bite his ear off. To curtail the madness, he arrives home in the mornings, loads the kids and 9’4” Kennedy in the station wagon, and heads to Malibu. Between surfs he catnaps on the beach, during which time twelve-year-old Trace and ten-year-old Chad take turns riding whitewash at the bottom of First Point.
It’s not long before they’re totally hooked. Not only by the glory of standing on a board and streaking across water, but by the endless beach party that is the scene at First Point. They bop their heads to Billy Bear’s guitar strumming; they overhear Angie Reno’s detailed accounts of early Pipeline. They marvel at Josh Farberow’s, Jimmy Gamboa’s and Dane Peterson’s ace nose riding. On south swells, they’re treated to Joel Tudor’s and Herbie Fletcher’s mastery. And then one day they put it together that these are the very same guys they’ve been watching in videos like Power Glide, Blazing Longboards, and Siestas and Olas.
“We were just these kids from the valley, standing on the edge of the best surfers in the world, totally in awe,” says Trace. “If we were lucky we’d get a head nod. But what broke it was my little brother. One day we get out of the water and DJ, who’s six at the time, is giving tacos to some model chick. Then the next thing you know he’s tossing a football back and forth with Josh Farberow. And then the next thing you know me and Chad join in, and from that point on we started hanging out under the palapa and raging with this whole multi-generational crew.”
It was a tutelage that would resonate profoundly. Had Mr. Marshall chosen a perch 200 yards further up the point the brothers may have become God-fearing, thruster-riding NSSA kids, but as it were they had an entirely different coming of age. Trace remembers smoking joints with old salty dogs that’d listen to smooth jazz through transistor radios; Chad recalls endless parties in beachfront palaces where he’d wake up amongst a sea of bodies and beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays—“I’m pretty sure that was the summer I lost my virginity.” But as much as they were getting a crash course in barefoot hedonism, so too was their surfing progressing in leaps and bounds.
“Josh Farberow taught us how to read the wave at First Point,” says Trace. “He was the one who told us we needed to go way outside and surf all the way across the point. He also told us to surf for yourself. This was when longboarding was exploding and there were always cameras around and he was like, ‘Don’t pose. Just surf for the feeling. It’s about going from Point A to Point B…’”
The next arc in our story comes in ’96 when Jim and Dionne divorce and Jim moves to Manhattan Beach. Though unfortunate as far as the family goes, it was a blessing in disguise with regards to Trace and Chad’s surfing. All they’d ever known was the long, tapered walls of Malibu, and suddenly they were bouncing around the mercurial beachbreaks of the South Bay. Chad remembers: “We’d be staying with my dad in Manhattan Beach and a big swell would come in and we’d jump off the end of the pier. Everyone thought we were crazy ‘cause we were riding longboards. We were like, Let’s think outside the box and do weird stuff—fin first nose rides, fin first tube rides, these weird nose ride floaters… We’d go back to Malibu and do it on clean waves and it was a piece of cake.”
They surfed their first contest in ’97 and both won; Trace taking the Juniors, Chad the Menehune. And then just a few weeks later they found themselves pounding Bloody Marys on a plane bound for Sydney in what’s a story straight out of the Dora Handboook.
Amongst the melting pot of Malibu they’d befriended Henry Holmes, a renowned entertainment lawyer whose beachfront pad they’d hang out at between surfs. Holmes had a soft spot for the Brothers Marshall and when they mentioned the upcoming Noosa Festival of Surfing in Australia and the fact they had no money to get there, Holmes set up a travel fund. Amongst the contributors: Pamela Anderson, Hulk Hogan, George Foreman and an array of other dubious celebrities.
It was a headfirst plunge into the higher echelons of longboarding. They stayed at the Four Seasons, shared waves with Nat Young, Greg Noll, Bob McTavish, and Joel Tudor, and got hammered in the hotel bar with all their heroes. Chad placed second and Trace got puked on by one of the top female noseriders of the time. “It felt like we’d stepped into Blazing Longboards,” recalls Chad. “Only in this version we were co-stars.”
They spent the next couple years chasing contests from Santa Cruz to San Miguel. And though they made the finals of virtually every event they entered, their run would be short lived. “We loved the fun of hanging out with friends up and down the coast,” says Trace. “But we also saw how disposable it was. Like, Why should we be fake and kiss up to these companies to get $1000 a month. I guess we just saw the bigger picture.”
There was also the megalopolis of Los Angeles. It seems only a matter of time before the Malibu surfer’s interests expand beyond the beach. By the time Trace was a high school senior he was spending as much time tagging freeway underpasses as he was hanging ten. And then there was the trip to Mexico with Thomas Campbell where he became interested in photography, the fortuitous meeting with Barry McGee at a gallery opening in San Francisco, the epiphany on the 101 in which he realized it was time for change. “I really wanted to get away from surfing,” he says. “So right after I got out of high school I was like, Dad, I’m movin’ to San Francisco—will you buy me a train ticket? I’ll never forget the ride up, looking out the window seeing all my favorite breaks—Ventura, Rincon, the Ranch—it felt like saying goodbye.”
Trace bounced from couch to couch, wrote a shitload of graffiti, and shirked a paying job. For a time he was homeless in the Mission district. “I’d just wander the streets all night and then sleep in movie theatres in the day. See, you can’t really sleep anywhere at night. You can’t sleep in the park ‘cause they think you’re a gangster. You can’t sleep on the street ‘cause they think you’re a crackhead. You can’t be on the sidewalk ‘cause the gutter punks stick together and’ll kick your ass. I ended up having this guy pull a knife on me for a pair of Reeboks and that was the end of it.”
After a short stint selling churros at PacBell Park, Trace landed a gig with Urban Outfitters, who were heavily impressed by his freewheeling creativity. It wasn’t long before they had him zapping all over the country doing installations and window displays for their booming retail chain. And though another nineteen-year-old might’ve reveled in his good fortune, Trace felt like he was getting old before his time.
“I was up in Canada doing a window display and I was like a full-on magazine junkie. So one night I’m doing my nightly sesh at the newsstand when I grab Longboard and it’s the California issue and there’s like Josh and Jimmy and all my buddies surfing in trunks and I’m like, Holy fuck, what am I doing? I’m movin’ back… I called Chad and he was completely on the same page.”
Chad, incidentally, had been on sabbatical as well. In his words, he’d gotten “totally into chicks, punk rock and skateboarding.” Chad drove to San Francisco, scooped up Trace, and brought him back to the ‘Bu. It was a strange homecoming. They’d been gone less than a year but so much had changed. The palapa was gone, Angie Reno was gone, Josh Farberow had moved up to the Ranch, and the longboarding boom had seemingly come to a close. For the first time in their young lives, the brothers felt the weight of maturity. “We were standing there looking out over First Point and it was like it all flashed before us,” says Trace. “And we pretty much just said, Alright, we’re back. But this time let’s make it happen on our terms.”
They rented a small apartment in Santa Monica, raged every night, and made it a point to get in the water everyday. Some months later Trace and a friend packed up four Holgas (skewed-focus cameras), 80 rolls of film, and two 9’6”s and flew to Puerto Vallarta in a kind of On The Road search for the soul of early millennium surfing. Instead they ended up at a transvestite club in Zihuatanejo, which resulted in “Have You Met My Girlfriend Holga?” a photo exhibition of transvestites in lewd positions (the flyer shows a nude tranny holding a camera over his/her crotch). For the next year the brothers ran wild on the streets of Los Angeles. “We’d go from weird mansion parties to red carpet events to sleazy dive bars to skid row,” recalls Trace. “Things just clicked: LA history, fashion, music, design. It was pretty much the beach meets the streets—Malibu by day, Hollywood all night.”
Good things came their way. They co-founded clothing label Gonz, launched the Marshall Model with longtime shaper Scott Anderson, and designed a wetsuit range out of Japan entitled Dirty Rubbers: Custom Seamen Suits. Above all else, they tapped a creative vein that fuses surfing and urban interests. The inner animal, in other words, has not been squashed. As Trace puts it, “We’re just a couple of fucking kooks who ride longboards at First Point Malibu. I mean at what point did people start taking themselves so seriously? Surfing’s like the least serious thing in the world.”
The parallels are uncanny. In Big Wednesday a drunken Matt Johnson shows up to faux Malibu sans surfboard. He wears jeans and red Pendleton and his sandy blonde hair flops in his face. While his buddies Barlow and Leroy borrow him a board, he’s on hands and knees nearly puking. In the background, the iconic Malibu wall reads “Long Live King Matt.”
On a Saturday morning in the summer of 2007 a severely hungover Trace Marshall shows up to Malibu without a board. He wears turquoise skinny jeans, grey hoodie and a pair of bug-eyed red sunglasses that look like something from Disneyland. His blonde hair flops in his face. While the regulars make lewd comments about last night’s festivities, Trace rubs his temples and ponders the row of motley equipment. There’s a spankin’ new displacement hull, an oval-shaped four fin, an ‘80s West German windsurf vehicle converted to a longboard, and a late ‘70s Natural Progression winged pintail single fin. In the background, the iconic wall reads “Marshalls are fags.”
In Big Wednesday Johnson stumbles to the water and paddles out like some kook from Ohio. And then a wave comes. He strokes, hops to his feet, and proceeds to ride with a grace and flow that’s more powerful than the alcohol in his system. When he cross steps to the nose and assumes the position the message is perfectly clear: water as healer, surfing as salvation. Trace’s movements are equally as poetic. He paddles out on the converted windsurfer, picks off a waist high peeler, and goes straight for the nose. His arms are seemingly glued to his hips and his body English resembles a soldier in front of Buckingham Palace. It’s effortlessness raised to the level of statuesque. It’s vaguely tongue in cheek. It’s what 2007 kids do to 1963 when their heads are fuzzy.
Another Big Wednesday moment: Remember the party scene where all hell’s breaking loose downstairs and mom patiently, lovingly, has her nose buried in a book upstairs? Three drunken girls bust through the door looking for the bathroom and rather than get pissed off mom merely shakes her head as if to say, Oh those crazy kids…
Golden Bull restaurant in Santa Monica Canyon. A couple dozen of Malibu’s finest huddle in ruby red vinyl booths while a fading beauty straight out of a Tom Waits song DJs the karaoke booth. The Trouble Sisters with their Farrah Fawcett hair, Bonne Bell eyes and checkered slip-ons are in the house. So’s Eric Gross the elegant noserider and Jesse Faen the Aussie transplant who tears the gullet out of First Point on his Pavel fish. So’s Neil, Litz, Jordy, Piscitelli, Diamond Dave, Malibu Carl and Billy Bear. During another ebb in LA surfing’s checkered history this would be one of those rare moments where comments like “strange to see you out of your wetsuit” abound, but here in the summer of ‘07 it’s become a typical gathering. In fact one could argue that Malibu hasn’t felt such communal buzz since the days of Kahuna and Moondoggie. And while it was once a haven of the unemployed, it’s now something like a think tank of creatives who work their own hours. Gross is an art director, Jesse’s an apparel VP, Jordy’s a music label owner, Piscitelli’s a video director…
The Trouble Sisters’ mother sits in a rear booth and watches in awe as her seventeen- and fourteen-year-old daughters cavort with these fangless wolves who’ve taken them under their wing. Trouble drinks a Shirley Temple, Trouble Jr. a Roy Rogers.
Trouble sidles up to her mom: “Chad says for you to get him a Jack and Coke.”
Mom laughs. She doesn’t know whether to be offended or charmed. “He’s kidding, right?”
“No.”
Mom shrugs, “Diet or regular Coke?”
Chad on stage, mic in one hand, Jack and Coke in the other. In his burgundy wingtips, skin-tight jeans, and flamingo pink vest he resembles a kind of suntanned leprechaun. His ice blue eyes burst with life and his gleaming smile is contagious. He’s propped up on his elbow as if telling a bedtime story. He sings: Girlfriend in a coma/ I know I know/ It’s serious. But of course it isn’t. It’s a campy take on Morrisey with a hint of Sinatra thrown in to pay tribute to fact that this place has been here for sixty-odd years and advertises prime rib on its signage—a slice of endangered Americana. It’s the kind of post-modern night that echoes the Golden Age of Hotdogging when one’s ability to lift the Moment was intrinsically linked to one’s ability to find the trim line.
And when the song finishes Chad hands the mic back to the vested DJ, slinks to the bar and banters with the indie film starlet, then steps out to the sidewalk and lights a cigarette with a fluidity that’s both James Dean and Gerry Lopez. When a greasy homeless dude stumbles up and asks for spare change, Chad opens up to him as if he were part of the gang. And it’s this ability to bounce from one end of the spectrum to the other that is the hallmark of the Malibu surfer. It comes from an upbringing of constant improvisation, dancing amongst the culture clash, finding moments of rapture on a wave that’s often clusterfucked three surfer’s thick.
Which brings us back to the ‘Bu.
It would be easy to overlook their surfing skills. Ask Chad about the details of the Marshall Model and he shrugs, “I don’t even know what the fuck boards do.” Ask Trace how surfing fits into his urban life and he says, “It’s an extension of everything we do” and then mentions the amazing fashion get-ups he sees on the bus each morning (he works in downtown LA). They will tell you that Tom Curren, Joel Tudor and skateboarders Mark Gonzales and Natas Kaupas have been huge inspirations, and that above all else it’s about “setting up the next section, making it to the beach, and doing it all over again.” But ultimately they prefer to let their surfing do the talking. Thus this slice of a late September session:
Trace and Chad frolic like a couple of giddy sea otters in the First Point line-up. The light is halcyon orange, the water endless summer blue. Trace takes off on a waist high peeler and cranks a Carson-esque bottom turn. His hands mirror the lip in a kind of Malibu hula. Behind him, Chad hops to his feet and swiftly somersaults across the deck and lands in a hang ten. For a moment there’s a synchronicity, the brothers on back-to-back waves, both on the nose, both arching their backs and holding their arms just so.
The session is an exercise in imagination. There are fin-first take offs, hang heels, one-footed hang tens, high fives while one paddles out and the other rides past. There are hoots and shouts and whistles that resemble an elementary school yard at recess. There’s an engagement beyond just what happens whilst standing, a kind of seamless, holistic immersion that puts the dismount on the shore and the trot up the sand and the knee paddle out to the crown of First Point right up there with the left-go-right bottom turn or fifty-yard soul arch. Most of all, there’s this obvious dialogue between the two, a Heckle and Jeckle repartee on water that’s not about one-upmanship but melding energies, taking what’s traditionally known as an individual sport into duo territory. This becomes most apparent when they perform their signature trick: Trace paddles out, Chad streaks across. Just as Chad’s about to pass, Trace dismounts and pushes his board into the wave. And then in a move that contains a hint of abracadabra and a heap of symbolism, Chad hops from his to Trace’s board and continues on down the line, while Trace dutifully, lovingly, swims shoreward to retrieve his brother’s board.
