Surfing journalists, pretenders to the Kampion/Hynde mantle, trip heavily on Slater’s miraculous
continuation as 34 has become their new 54, and he continues his timeless mission of deep carves
through the fall line as the new rockers trampoline their guts out. Orthopedic bills to follow.
Former pros move onto the payroll, hucking product for the man, white shades and tattered new shoes,
striking poses like Daisy at the prom, big mortgage to pay. Corporate profits only up 1.3% this quarter,
market penetration down .9%, get the new “now”, and get him fast.
Tow sessions are planned like gym workouts, flight on Monday, swell on Tuesday, back in the office on Wednesday. Film
on Thursday. Trade in on the 07’ for the 08’ in progress.
Office workers paddle one oar stubbornly for hours, learning basic skills, proudly carrying their new Dominators to the waterline,
how many waves can they catch in the next hour or three, ignoring the anger churned up in their wakes as they imagine Laird.
Retro 5’10 twin fins being spit out by the machine every ten minutes, joining the growing pile on the floor, retro is the new cool, and cool always sells. 220# weekenders proudly display bitchin yellow, red and green ones, then struggle with a mushy take-off, doomed from the start.
Deeply pitted, full spread ad, you too can surf like this on one of our pop-outs.
The board in the photograph was custom shaped in Hawaii, made of PU, glassed by the best.
ssshhh…
An elder of the tribe blinks in the glare of the headlights, and then moves slowly across the road towards the secret path.
The cars whiz past at a hundred miles an hour, hundreds of yellow, red and green ones, heading for where there are
only 24 parking spaces available, but Surfline said place to be.
In 1968 a kid looks at the old longboard and at the picture in the mag, and then back at the board until he can begin to see it. With razor and pliers he skins it nude, traces lines and begins with tentative strokes of the surform.
Forty years later, hundreds just like him across the planet lay down their vision in their garage, keeping the journey and the dream alive. Pop-out’s anathema, go soul or go home.
The elder emerges from the water, refreshed, the buzz from one ride still simmering.
It’s all good.