Once upon a time, and by this I refer to the early part of the century when it was a pair of Americans who owned the world title and back when Jordy Smith was on 20 gees a year (unbelievable!), Stab magazine was a portal through which the reader could access the ultimate in hi-fidelity surfing. It was a voice as fresh as the waters of Bavaria, a well-spring of good humour and hard action. In Christian schools, the birth of Stab is mentioned, usually but not always, in the same sentence as the virgin birth of Jesus Holy Christ. (Peace be upon him.)
From the first issue, in which a helicopter was used to record the action of Taj Burrow to our hiring of a wavepool (twice) and our much imitated use of jetskis to whip-in the best surfers in the world including Joel Parkinson, Josh Kerr and Jamie O’Brien, there was no expense too great nor hurdle too difficult to leap in our attempt to bring you the best of the best.
Back in this golden epoch, star Stab photographer Scott Aichner ruled the water with his exclusive 270-degree camera, using Stab credit to cart the device as far afield as the waters of Teahupoo, Tahiti.
Shane Dorian brought hedonism back to surfing when he rode a Stab-created golden surfboard in Bali (as always, photographed from a helicopter) for the cover of our Luxury Issue.
Taj Burrow attempted a thirty-foot acid drop out of a chopper, risking buckled stilts, in the middle of a world title campaign year. For Stab.
We even drove five thousand clicks to document the gayness of tow.
That’s how good Stab was…
Then, something very special happened, something unimaginable in its awesomeness. The proprietors began to taste the addictive tang of success. A money faucet miraculously appeared and its trickle soon turned into a flood.
Gone was any interest in surfing; in came the passion for promising stocks and luxury British-designed cars.
In a bid to drain the surfing industry of even more of its hard-earned gains in the leisurewear industry, we cut the magazine in two and turned half of it into a men’s clothing catalogue, with pages sold to the highest bidder. Our covers were devoted to surfers who were liked more for the cut of their trilby and the tightness of their cigarette pants than the depth of their surfing.
This greediness continues to this very day. Therefore, this book is a collector’s item; a document of that exciting time, now long gone, when each new magazine promised… rapture! – Derek Rielly.
