This issue? A $952 Air Tahiti Nui airfare and a six-hour non-stop fl ight sees me beachfront at the end of the road, squinting into a Pacifi c sunset with five hours of surfi ng squelched under my belt. At least that’s the fantasy. My notes makes for pathetic reading:
Day
one. Personal campaign begins poorly. Three foot west-swell Teahupoo
morphes into six-foot sets. Many pull backs by author. Muster up
courage to take off. Pitched. Later, called into a closeout by a local
bodyboarder. Pride overtakes skill. Pitched into mercifully deep water.
Wear set. Washed over reef and into lagoon. Gooned! Just like a CTer on
a 10 foot day! Three hours in the lineup, feet didn’t touch wax.
Second surf, little pass. Soft four foot rights. Catch many waves and sit inside pack. From scared to Laird in one session.
Day two: Swell drops. I silently give thanks. At three pm, with the waves getting even smaller, I demand a recount at Teahupoo. It’s a Sunday. Fifteen pre-teen bodyboarders crowd the three-foot peaks. Horny as all hell to leave boat and dominate session. Go swimming at a secludedbeach instead. Dreamy waterfall.
This issue’s
junket was to report on the continuing adventures of Scott Aichner and
his revolutionary twin-unit 270º camera. Ike’s photos have
been light in the mag of late, something to do with the amateur
bodybuilderslash-photographer spending the summer in Ventura California
picking
fl owers and squatting huge amounts of iron at the Grunting Narcissus ™
gym. In between sets, he’d told us on the phone and in that heroic
baritone
of his: “Man, sure love to get that camera at Teahupoo. Doesn’t have to
be big either, maybe fi ve foot, smaller even, just gotta be clean,
shots’d
be amazing.”
Small Teahupoo? I’m there! I could hardly sign the credit card receipt
fast enough. As God’s hand would have it, Ike was also there for a
monster
truck swell, as big as the Sep 11 gear, that came two days after our
small wave team (excluding Brad Gerlach) had fl ed French Polynesia. So
was
Koby Abberton, a man who prefers to hunt rather than be hunted. What a
constrast, gimmicky watershots (but fascinating as all get out – you’ll
feel like you’re in the lineup) and bleak death-and-glory gear shot
from the channel. It’ll be interesting to hear what you prefer. The
remainder of the magazine is a tribute to the young, dumb scum who
continue to push the envelope of performance surfi ng and the infl
uence satan plays on these putrid boy-men. Bitchin!
– DEREK RIELLY.
