Bustin'

Shaun at Off The Wall
Shaun Tomson's, "Bustin' Down The Door", Uncovers the Dark Underbelly of the Free Ride Generation

It plays out like an action-thriller. There are fights and death threats, shakedowns and shotguns, thugs and innocents and life-threatening stunts all set within one of the world's most beautifully treacherous and cutthroat arenas.
But, Bustin' Down The Door, which premiered to a sold-out audience Sunday night (January 27) at the Santa Barbara Film Festival, is no action-thriller. It's a surf movie, though not in any traditional sense of the genre.
The film, co-produced by three-time world champion and Montecito-resident Shaun Tomson, recounts and clarifies the darkly tumultuous story behind Tomson, Rabbit Bartholomew, Mark Richards, Peter Townend and Ian Cairns' 1975-76 North Shore season, a season which hence dubbed the quintet the Free Ride generation after the eponymous film that documented their groundbreaking wave riding.
But, Free Ride, which hands-down put the attention-hungry group smack center in the surfing limelight, also managed to solidify the perception that the Free Riders' overwhelming dominance in the water and in the surf media was part of a calculated, strategically planned group effort. It's a perception that dangerously fueled an already simmering feud between the up-shot Free Riders and the edgy and getting edgier Hawaiians. That it wasn't true didn't seem to prevent it from somehow becoming fact.
"It's one of the biggest fallacies to grow out of the whole scene," Tomson says. "Everyone perceived us as this brash and arrogant collective. Everyone thought we had this master plan to take over the North Shore. That just wasn't the case at all."
At best, Tomson, Bartholomew, Richards, Townend and Cairns were a loose collective of acquaintances. Tomson was South African. The rest of the crew was from Australia but spread fairly wide throughout. This was no band of brothers. If there was a collective, Tomson says, it was a collective based upon a group of like-minded people. No roster. No secret handshake. No team playbook. Just a coincidental group of individuals, each thick with talent and ego, and who simultaneously but separately became hell bent on taking over the world.
It was a mindset born out of their respective surfing backgrounds. In South Africa and Australia, surfing is a high profile sport that bogarts the national conscious the way American football bogarts ours. Surfers there are looked upon as bona fide athletes, and athletes compete to be the best, sometimes at all costs. Counter this with 70's-era Hawaiian surfing. Though every bit as competitive, it wasn't the rah-rah get your name in the sports pages I want to be a surf star kind of competitive. Hawaiian surfing was an extension of culture, an extension built on the soul of the sport and a deep respect for that soul. What manifested then was a clash of cultures. The Hawaiians, seeking the purist's line, versus the Free Riders, seeking the headlines.
"That's absolutely what it was," Tomson says. "But we didn't mean to upset anyone. It was just who we were as individuals. Each of us wanted to be the best. Each of us wanted to be famous. We wanted to be in all of the mags. We wanted people to talk about us. We wanted to figure out a way to make a career out of surfing. That's what it was all about."
To this end, the Free Riders launched their so-called assault. Contest surfing. Free surfing. It didn't matter. Each was there to push the boundaries of the sport, to out-surf anyone, Hawaiian or otherwise, and to get noticed while doing it. And how do you this? Not by being passive. Not by sitting out on the shoulder. Not by laying low at the B-spots. No way. Each day they deliberately sought the marquee waves at the marquee spots: Pipeline, Backdoor, Off The Wall, Halewia, Sunset. Wherever it was best and the limelight shone the brightest, was where they paddled out. And when they did, they weren't shy about taking off.
"To be the best you can't pick and peck around the periphery," Tomson says. "You have to go in and go in hard."
The Hawaiians took exception to their methods. These arrogant haoles had no respect for the sport. Worse, they had no respect for the established order. It didn't help either that these haoles could surf, were literally redefining the way serious waves could be ridden, the way the tube could be ridden.
So, things got ugly. Bartholomew got punched out. Tomson slapped around. Cairns got death threats. Eventually word of contracted hits surfaced and sent Bartholomew into hiding armed with a baseball bat and Tomson to a hotel with a shotgun as a roommate. The Free Riders weren't so free, after all.
"What's ironic is that we thought we were being respectful," Tomson says. "The Hawaiians were our heroes. Duke Kahanamoku, Gerry Lopez, Barry Kanaiaupuni, Jeff Hakman. We looked up to those guys. The reaction we got and the heavy stuff that came out of it was completely unexpected."
Thirty years later, the heavy stuff that came out of it is the crux of Tomson's Bustin' Down The Door. The film, financed by Tomson and two other co-producers, gathers together all of the principles who fueled the drama – the heroes, the villains, the go-betweens – and in their own words lets them recount and reveal the sordid details. What results, Tomson says, is a surf movie unlike any other surf movie ever made.
"No question, there's fantastic surfing in the film," says Tomson, who included some of the choicest morsels from the era's choicest surf footage. "But it's really not a surf movie. It's a drama with an incredibly compelling story, a story that's never been fully told."
Via an interview process that involved 33 big name surfers, 19 hours of tape and 13 months to shoot, cut and edit, Tomson says a piece of surfing history at last unfolds as it really happened. As for reconciliation among the antagonists, it took place but not across the board.
"There are still some guys who haven't let it go," he says.
What gets him most about the film, besides the startling onslaught of age, is that what held true 30 seasons ago on the North Shore still holds true today. That is, in order to be the best you still have to go against the best.
"I hope some kid watches this and realizes that it can still be done," he says. "I hope it inspires them to follow the same path, to put it all on the line, to go after their goals regardless of the consequences."
And Tomson? Would he, given the chance and knowing what he knows now, do it all over again?
"Without question," he says. "I think we all would. I think we'd all go back there and get our asses kicked all over again." BE
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BrainWaves

Ghost Tree.
Just hearing the name of this haunting break can send a shiver down any surfer's spine. And, up until the last couple of years, the spooky mysto spot lurked as a relatively obscure anomaly in the West Coast surfing community. Save for a handful of Central California big-wave chargers – people like Don Curry, Tyler Smith and until recently, Peter Davi – the place was left respectfully, sanely, off limits.
But things have changed. Skis, money and serious nad have brought unprecedented media exposure, and now, with every new macking swell, Ghost Tree has become as notorious and photographed as its big-wave brethren, Maverick's.
During the last week of November, surf forecasters began tracking a monstrous Pacific storm system, and in the days leading up to December 4 predictions of wave faces approaching 70 feet were on the radar. Things on the coast were going to get interesting.
On December 3,
I received a phone call from a friend alerting me to the fact that some of the premier tow-surfing teams in the world would be assembling at Pebble Beach the following day to take on the massive surf at Ghost Tree. Having never before had the opportunity to shoot a spectacle such as this, I packed my gear, set my alarm and was on the road by 2 o'clock the following morning.
I arrived in Carmel at around 7:30, and with relative ease navigated my way up 17 Mile Drive to Pescadero Point. When I stepped out of my car I could immediately sense an indescribable presence of intense energy that was beyond eerie. Giant swells, unfathomable in size, exploded on the reef into churning surf, which, even from hundreds of yards away, created a heavy mist that fell like rain on the bluffs.
Watching the tow-in teams on their jet skis assemble in the channel I couldn't help but to contemplate the gravity of the situation. This was the real deal. One by one the surfers began taking off, insanely steep drops, long, sweeping bottom turns, followed by a drag race down the line through an obstacle course of boils formed by the huge boulders just below the surface.
Some of the surfers would even launch themselves airborne off of the boils and land some 20 feet down the line.
To call this assault on the wave mind-blowing would be an understatement. Viewing all of this through the long reach of my telephoto lens, it was almost as if I were there in the water with them. I even began to react physiologically -- muscles twitching, heart pounding -- as I rode each wave vicariously from the safety of land. Soon, huge crowds of onlookers gathered. Television crews staked out the cliffs. Helicopters buzzed overhead, filming the liquid beasts from the sky. Ghost Tree was going off in all of its glory. As predicted, the surf continued to grow through the morning: 30-foot faces, 40-foot faces, 50-foot faces, and then a few rogue sets swept through that we so huge their faces were called at 70 feet.
As time passed, the glare from the sun made it too difficult to shoot pictures, so I drove down into Carmel Bay to see if I could get a decent shot of the barrel. As I left Pescadero Point, though, I found myself surrounded by a virtual squadron of emergency vehicles, Monterey County Sheriffs, ambulances, fire engines, search and rescue, the whole lot. I asked a passerby what had happened.
"Somebody got killed out there," he said.
My heart sunk. I had a friend out in the water.
That night when I returned home I began to search for more information on the Internet. The major news wires were reporting the death of longtime local big-wave surfer Peter Davi, As the story unfolded, it became known that Davi, 45, had been paddle-surfing when his leash broke and had attempted to swim in through the Ghost Tree impact zone. Swim in through the Ghost Tree impact zone. It was unthinkable.
Ghost Tree functions when fast moving swells race in from deep water through undersea canyons, which channel the intense energy and then unload it over a virtual boulder field. It's almost a one-chance wave with no room for error as rescue by watercraft in the impact zone is out of the question. Towing-in is practically a prerequisite although some (read: very few) brave souls, people like Peter Davi, chance paddling in when it gets really big.
A firm belief in the big-wave surfing community is that if a surfer loses his board, he or she should be a strong enough swimmer to be able to get in under their own power to retrieve it.
Davi honored this code as it was later revealed that he refused a tow-team's ride to shore. Some time later, his body was found floating in a kelp patch. Attempts to revive him were unsuccessful, and the beloved friend of many and the father of one, was pronounced dead at the scene.
Later, as reported by the Santa Cruz Sentinel, an autopsy revealed that Davi was under the influence of methamphetamine at the time of his death. Whether it was because of impaired capacity or judgment that he perished, we will never know. By definition, big-wave surfing in such extreme conditions is risky business. The ocean plays for keeps. And, with more and more surfers joining the big wave ranks, the likelihood of it "keeping" a few more continues to go up. I won't let the unsavory part of Peter's story tarnish his legacy. Ghost Tree is no playground. The guy charged. May he rest in peace. BE

Cloudbreak

I The Tavarua boat launch sits at the end of an occasionally graded dirt road in the deep shade of a mangrove. Nothing about the place indicates that paradise is imminent. No signs promise drink specials or para-sailing rides. No vendors offer t-shirts or tchotchkes. It's strictly utilitarian.
We gather our daypacks and camera bags from the bus and walk down a muddied path to the water's edge where we meet the previous week's crew now awaiting its ride back to Nadi. To a person each of them wears a deep tan and a beatific grin. We pepper them with questions about the weather and the surf, and they answer politely and generously, but mostly they just smile back at us, looking glazed and etherized, like a bunch of morphine addicts. It's obvious they know things we don't yet know.
Beyond them, out in the shallows, pangas are moored. We wade out in the bath-water warmth, climb aboard and in seconds are tooling through every shade of blue imaginable and on toward a pair of islands that sit like green smears on the horizon. I turn to the boatman.
"Which one's Tavarua?" I ask.
He points straight ahead at a small verdant disc floating on the sea. It's a speck, really, a blip on the radar. The vibe on the boat, already giddy, ramps up several notches.
Then the boatman points again and says something to me that gets lost in his accent and the hum of the motor. I raise my palms. He points once more and this time from the mélange of mechanics and dialect one word pierces the din.
"Cloudbreak?" I say.
He nods.
I look and see nothing but an empty ocean. But then it comes into focus — a dun-colored edifice that rises out of the middle of the sea. It seems unattached to anything, and in my total non-understanding of the local compass points, looks completely out of directional whack.
"Cloudbreak," I say. The boatman flashes me the shaka. I smile and look back at the tower and study the water around it. Out to its right I can see explosions of white.
"Is it good today?" I ask.
The boatman nods.
"Big?"
He nods again.
And I wonder, does he mean Cloudbreak big? Or, California big? It's an important distinction but I don't ask for clarification. I'd know soon enough.

II It was my friend, Kelly Brown, who'd connected my family and I to the island. Kelly's a good surfer with lots of reef pass experience and a veteran of probably 20 trips to Tavarua. His word was as good as gospel and I'd been relentless about picking his brain on everything from board length and width to leash type and sun block. "Look," he said, finally. "Here's all you need to know about Cloudbreak: Some guys are going to get the waves of their lives and some guys are going to get hurt. And most of them probably both."
His words lent a Green Mile effect to the boat ride out to Cloudbreak, a boat ride I can best describe as 15 minutes of excitement and disbelief mired within a subtext of dread. After all, you've been dreaming and talking about the place for months and as you at last near the reef and see that the tower scaffolding gets its dun coloring from a thick layer of bird crap and as you see front and center the beautiful unmistakableness of the waves and you unsheathe your board from the stack at the front of the panga and with it jump over the side into the aquarium-clear water and then begin the short paddle toward them, you're thinking you can't believe you're actually here and oh my god what have I gotten myself into. It's a feeling I paddled out with on every session.
That first afternoon all of the new arrivals boated out, which meant 10 surf-starved FNGs joined the half dozen or so guys already in the water, among which were Kelly and Dave Clark, the reluctant, self-effacing visionary who 25 years earlier had started the epic and nearly incomprehensible process of bringing contemporary Tavarua into being.
The surf was a merciful 4' to 6' – not Cloudbreak big but bigger than California big — and hindered somewhat by an onshore crumble that Kelly and Dave said was freshening. Still, once the waves pushed through the outer chop and reached the inside they cleaned up enough to put that trademark frosted-blue-heaving-oval Cloudbreak vision on full display. Paddling toward them was surreal.

III When they write the history of Cloudbreak surfing my first wave won't even rate as a footnote. It was a couple feet overhead at best and consisted of a drop, a few turns and a kick-out. It was a throwaway. Yet, it's one of the waves I remember most from the trip, partly because its warp speed and voluminous girth confirmed for me the sheer magnitude of the place, and partly because I rode it and I didn't die. These two things were quite high on my checklist to experience before leaving Tavarua, and on my first wave I accomplished them both.
Lasting Impression Wave Number Two came a few hours later during what evolved into one of the dreamier sessions of the week. The onshore wind picked up and by the time the 3:30 boat arrived Cloudbreak was blown-out. I considered heading back to the island with everybody else until I saw that there were only two surfers on the 3:30 boat. Blown-out or not, the opportunity to surf Cloudbreak with only two other guys out was, well, any fool can finish that sentence.
Like all good surf stories, magic fuels the plot. And it fueled this one gradually. First, a barely noticeable breath of wind suddenly runs counter to the prevailing onshore, then, on your next wave the bump you've been impaling all session long seems to have shrunk, and, then as you scratch into your next wave spindrift pellets your eyes, and then finally you look around and see that you and just two other guys are trading off pretty much perfect overhead-plus Cloudbreak.
And, then, the wave comes, the one that turns your world upside down, the one that at the same time blows your mind and scares the living crap out of you. The one Kelly Brown told you about.
It began mid-reef as a juicy head-high screamer but instead of gradually and benevolently tapering off into the channel like the others, it metastasized into a thing that now loomed several feet over my head. Worse, it seemed to be growing taller still and the shoulder, which all afternoon I'd been so happily and safely milking, was now located at a place much further down the line than I felt comfortable with. And then the Fijian sun, a floodlight of brilliance all day, went dark and shadowy and I realized with not just a little terror that I was in the bowl. The Cloudbreak Bowl.
But, entering it wasn't an entirely willful act. It was more of an occurrence, an inevitable byproduct of a whole series of previous actions. Sure, I'd been invited to Tavarua and I'd accepted. I paid my money, packed my bags, loaded my wife and kids onto an airplane, flown 12 hours across the Pacific Ocean, got on a small boat and for better or worse by my own volition Evinruded out to the reef. So, in that sense, it was willful. But in the truer sense it was out of my hands. The best simile I can come up with is that it was like entering a building, because you can't enter a building without actually being inside it. That is, once you walk through the front door and into the foyer you have no other choice but than to be inside it. It's an inexorable, tacitly agreed upon part of building entering.
As I processed this new bit of data I could feel my board being pulled with stubborn force up the face and toward the lip. I countered by pushing down as best I could until the wave and I reached a kind of stand off, one that forestalled my ascent but left me riding almost perpendicularly to the face. It continued to pull and I continued to push and there was a moment there of bowel-draining vulnerability when all I could think to do was holler at my board to hang on. And by the grace of god it did, and when I at last glided out of the section and into the channel a hoot as distinct as an air horn came from the boat. I was overcome. I wanted to thank my mother and father, my wife and children, Jah, Allah, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the Disciples, the members of the academy and I apologize to anyone I should have thanked but forgot to mention. And, I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I claimed it. Hell yeah, I did. Thrust my arms to the heavens like a Baptist on a bender with the messiah. But, trust me, it wasn't the claim of someone who had conquered but of someone who had survived.

IV That first magical session – overhead with just three of us out – was not an anomaly. Though the surf fluctuated in size and quality, the crowd factor throughout the week remained constant. It was a non-factor. A busy session saw maybe six guys in the water. Most sessions had less. Consequently, as the week went on I just assumed that it was the Tavarua norm, services rendered for the princely sum paid.
But then I heard the stories, the stories of private and surf company-sponsored trips that piled 35 surfers onto the island at a time, and of the relentless jockeying, merciless snaking and occasional brawl that accompanied them.
When it's on, Tavarua is a surfing paradise, but so aren't Rincon and Malibu and Hanalei Bay. The difference, of course, is that on Tavarua you can handpick who and how many people you want to surf with. I think that's the whole point.
Greg Cook, our host that week, gets the point – indeed, he embraces it — and I came to realize that the spaciousness of my surf sessions were the result of his shrewd orchestrations.
Greg is 62, fit as a cage fighter and, for the past 15 years the first two weeks of every Tavarua October have belonged to him. Which means he gets to create the guest list, a task he handles well.
"We're an older group," he told me during our initial phone conversation-slash-interview. "We're there to surf and have fun. We don't drop in on one another."
As such, he doesn't lard the island with surfers. Of the 38 of us who shared Tavarua that week 16 surfed, and the surfers he does invite, well, they just get the picture. And chew on this: Dave Clark can choose any two weeks of the year to bring his family to the island and he chooses Greg's.
What results is a Shangri-La of camaraderie. The wives are stoked. The kids are stoked. And the line-up is blessedly, ridiculously roomy. Greg Cook for president.

V But there's an ironic flipside to an empty line-up. What happens is this: Yes you get more waves but the more waves you get the more comfortable you become and the more comfortable you become the more daring you become until eventually you start to let down your guard and take chances that you probably shouldn't but you get away with it a few times and pretty soon you start to feel pretty bitchin' about yourself so you start to surf a little bit more like a hero which is fine if you're actually a hero.
Because built into the Cloudbreak reef is tragic inevitability. It's not a matter of if you're going to hit it but a matter of when (and not to mention, how hard). And with each passing session that I emerged unscathed and ostensibly more heroic I knew that the odds of my body meeting the coral were improving. Late Wednesday afternoon, the odds went even.
The wave was a beefy top-reefer that failed to taper. I straightened out, jumped off the back and got white-water launched into the shallows. My left foot took the brunt, and when I lifted it up for inspection I saw that my outer ankle was grated and chewed and the top of my foot looked as if it had been clawed by a bear. It stung impressively. But no bones poked out. No tendons flapped. They could call off the Heli-Vac.
On the boat ride back, as the blood painted my foot and leaked onto the bottom of the panga and my surf mates acknowledged the wound's apparent gnarliness, I worried about post-adrenaline fallout and of staph creeping into my medulla oblongata and of garden-variety discomfort but not without feeling that quixotic sense of manly pride that comes out of a little blood-letting. Wounds are badges, right? Every scar another story to exaggerate. What could be more edifyingly macho than a return from the fabled reef bloodied and battle-tested? But, hold on there, Chuck Norris, don't let the testosterone run too amok because when you get back to the island and limp your way across the sand and then up the path to the restaurant the first person you encounter is Dave and reflexively your balls go back into your purse. "How was it?" he asks.
Anybody else and it's a straightforward question. But it's not anybody else. It's Dave Clark, for crying out loud. The Man. And when The Man asks it, even though it is straightforward it's still not straightforward because around here, The Man has presence, serious presence, keep-your-jive-in-check kind of presence. And that's how it should be. When it comes to this place – to Cloudbreak and Restaurants and Rights — what hasn't The Man seen? What hasn't The Man paddled into?
Hell, The Man enters the buildings – willfully — for Chrissakes! So when The Man asks you how it was, the very fact that The Man didn't even bother to paddle out pretty much tells you how it was. Moreover, when you point out that you hit the reef and The Man looks down at your foot for a second and says, "I've seen girls with shaving cuts worse than that," well, your perspective on things gets restored.

VI On your last morning in the hushed pink light of dawn you lay in bed and run inventory: neck and shoulders, pretty much paralyzed; left foot, a goulash of blood and ooze; bottom lip, a crevasse of cracked blisters; pterygiums, fully aflame. Nonetheless, you're going back out there. You can't help yourself. It's the last morning. Mr. Pipe is calling your name.
At the beach, you remind yourself to send Greg Cook a Thank You card as only five of you get on the boat and Green Mile the channel under a blue and spotless sky. Your arrival at the reef dovetails with a stack of six-foot bombs each magazine-clean and so beautifully lit it makes you wonder if God has Photoshop. Two hours of "you go, no you go" ensue and when you leave, it's by edict not choice and behind you the reef is empty and pandering.
And, later, after the Fijians have loaded your gear onto the pangas and the hugs and handshakes have made the rounds, you reverse course back to the cloistered shade of the boat launch. There, your group gathers their daypacks and camera bags from the boats, wades the tepid shallows and this time walks up the muddied path into the leafy shadow of the mangrove, where the next week's crew now awaits its ride to Tavarua. They pepper you with questions about the weather and the surf, and you answer politely and generously but mostly you just smile back at them, looking glazed and etherized, like a bunch of morphine addicts. It's obvious you know things they don't yet know. BE

Big Wed.

Ventura County. Photo:Troy Overman
Wednesday, December 5, 2007.
West Santa Barbara Channel Buoy tosses out a reading of 23 feet at 20 seconds from 260 degrees.

Now, chew on that for a while. Let your mind run through the possibilities. It's the floodgates. The releasing of the hounds. A Central Coast bull's eye. Every spot you can think of is going off. Even spots you can't think of are going off.
At times it gets to be too much of a good thing. So much swell and angle in the water that places — El Cap, Campus, Rincon, etc. — get overwhelmed. Thing's not really even a swell. It's more like an event. 60 foot faces at Mav's. Death at Ghost Tree. Lots of SLO County license plate frames in the neighborhood. (Who can blame them?)
Tackle boxes washed clean from the Goleta Pier. Slater at Campus.
Is there a word for beyond epic? Mega-epic? Giga-epic? Stupid-epic? Whatever.
23 feet at 20 seconds from 260 degrees.
It's one for the ages. Why can't it happen more often? BE

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Costa Rica

Ex U.S. Olyimpic Skier turned Pro kiteboarder, Damien LeRoy reaches for an early morning nose grab. Time 7:15am, water temp, about 80, air temp, about 80.

Playa Copal: Kiteboarding Heaven on Central America's Rich Coast
Costa Rica is Central America's jewel. It's an oasis of calm among politically turbulent neighbors and an ecotourism haven, making it one of the best places in the world to experience the tropics while making minimal impact.
But more importantly, during winter, it's windy. And, when I say windy, I mean it blows non-stop. So windy, it's hard to sleep. And Ventura kiteboarder and instructor, Wes Matweyew, rides and teaches at one of the country's windiest spots, Cometa Copal. It was he who convinced me to red eye it out of Los Angeles with Cabrinah Kites team riders Jon Modica, Damien Leroy and Cameron Dietrich to check out the wind for ourselves. Landing at Liberia International Airport the first thing I notice through the airplane window is that the grass along the tarmac is bent 90 degrees from vertical. Wind! Getting off the plane I'm greeted by scorching 92-degree temperature and a steady 25-knot breeze. Jon, Damien, and Cameron are all smiles as we walk toward baggage claim a little faster than the rest of the tourists.
We pile into a taxi and head north through grassy hills toward our destination — Playa Copal, located in Bahia Salinas just south of Costa Rican/Nicaraguan boarder. It's a beautiful drive made only better by the fact that a mere 20 minutes after we arrive, we're shooting photos.
The wind is perfect 12-meter kite conditions, and already on the water is Wes, who rides past us yelling "Vote for Pedro," his favorite quote from the only DVD that stills plays at his house.
After a quick session we head up to Restaurante Copal for a few beers and some fresh baked pizza. Ulf's restaurant is the after-kite spot and the German expat welcomes us with a huge smile. We've only been in the country for a few hours and our routine is already set.
For the rest of the week I awake to the sound of wind violently battering the trees outside the house. Through the window all I can see are white caps spreading the length of the bay. The place is insane, kiteable 24-hours a day for the entire eight days we are there.
For the past two years Wes, his girlfriend, Norma, and their Chihuahua, Chicky, have made Playa Copal their winter home. After spending a week with them it's easy to understand why. The place is a kiteboarder's dream. Wes offers some highlights from his winter home: • The empty dawn patrol sessions at the island are the best way to put off morning lessons, as it's about two miles out and if anyone waves for me to come in I can't see them. • Daily monkey walks, rainbows overhead, sea turtles in the line-up, and of course kite fishing. • The four-mile kite across the bay to kitesurf in Nicaragua was quite intense, and certainly stupid as one of us ended up on shore and hog-tied in our lines after illegally entering the country with no passport and no Spanish other than hola. A few hours of frustrating communication results in a boat ride back in exchange for two packs of cigarettes and 80 bucks.
The upside though is that we're then able to use this boat connection for quick-strike surfing trips into Nicaragua with the boat picking us up at dawn right in front of the house. • When the wind hits 50 mph the wind swell starts to break out on the sand bars around the bay giving me a much needed wave fix in between surf trips and the chance to smack the crap out of the lips about 43 times a minute. • You can absolutely fly on the jumps out there with airtime on some jumps lasting well over 12 seconds. You can also ride in conditions that are beyond good, timing your jumps to coincide with an up-drafting gust feeding a passing thunderhead and just getting sucked up into oblivion.
The Skinny on Playa Copal
Average wind speeds:
November 15-23 mph; December 20-28 mph; January: 24-30+ mph; February 18-25 mph; March15-25 mph.
Water surface conditions:
It's a bay, so no ocean swell. Some chop is to be expected, though there is flat water to be found below the reef at the upwind riding area and out near Isla Bolanos which has a sugar-sand beach and perfectly clear, flat water.
Water Temp:
Warm. Though if you plan on riding for hours and hours, a shorty is recommended.
Who else will be there?
Kiteboarders come from all over the world, but not in droves. The vibe is good with dinners at Restaurante Copal usually hosting 15-25 kiteboarders all laughing, eating and drinking every night.
Should you bring your own gear?
Not everyone has the small kites and sails that they'll probably need to ride at Playa Copal. The Kite House has kites, sails and boards for rent. Best to bring your own harness, though some are available to rent.
What size kite will you need?
Because of the usually very strong winds it is highly unlikely that anyone will use a kite larger than a 12 or 14 meters (and then probably only in November).
Wheels:
If you are planning to do other tourist activities in Costa Rica or if you are traveling with someone who does not kiteboard or windsurf, you will probably want to rent a car. Generally, rentals cost $50- $100/day plus insurance and fuel.
Eats:
Restaurante Copal is less than 100 meters from Kite House, and is the usual end of day hangout. It features local seafood specialties and this year will add a new wood-fire oven for pizza and fresh bread. Ulf keeps the fridge full of cold bear and sodas. Other options include: La Sandia (dinner and BBQ with Kent & Lucie),EcoPlaya (a little more upscale), and local eateries in La Cruz.
Other stuff to do:
Playa Copal is very rural. The Kite House can help facilitate day trips for non-kiting activities like sport fishing, diving, horseback riding, surfing, day hikes to the volcanoes, zip-line adventures in rainforest, trips to Nicaragua, river rafting and mountain biking.
Is my stuff safe?
Yes, it is very safe. We never had any trouble with theft but still recommend a lock for your suitcase. I left 10-grand's worth of camera gear and a Mac G4 laptop with two external drives in an unlocked house and never even thought twice about it.
Travelers checks, cash or credit cards?
Do not bring travelers checks. Most merchants will not accept them. Cash is best. Most businesses accept US dollars and provide excellent exchange rates. Credit cards are accepted in larger businesses and at all major tourist centers. The Kite House accepts credit cards.
Contact information:
Reservations for instruction and lodging can be made by phone 011-506-676-1192, or email — Bob at lguardbl@gmail.com BE
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Colorado River

Glassy conditions on the water in Black Canyon.
By Laura Bylund - Photos by Rod Tucknott

I run the rock-climbing portion of an outdoor program, which means that when I head into the backcountry I travel light and don't get a lot of time out on the water. This past November, though, I was given the opportunity to leave my comfort zone to take part in about as watery of a trip as you can imagine – a canoe trip down the Colorado River.
It was a great opportunity and I was really excited until at a pre-trip meeting my boss said, "There's no real such thing as ‘dry' on the Colorado River Canoe Trip; just varying degrees of dampness." Three days of varying degrees of dampness? This might suck.
Canoeing down the Colorado River is best described as a car camping and backpacking trip combined, which has its benefits, none better than the advantage of a boat over a backpack. You can pack a canoe full of interminable amounts of gear and equipment and no matter the weight, only two people are needed to forward them considerable distances.
On this particular trip through Black Canyon in the Lake Mead National Recreation Area, we put in at Willow Beach Marina and prepared for an eight-mile "trek" upstream to the best campsite. Hiking this distance normally limits your gear to a small handheld stove, freeze-dried food, a lightweight tent, rain gear and the clothes on your back. A 3'x17' canoe, however, allows you to take coolers, two-burner stoves, big dome tents, EZ ups, tables and chairs — a truly luxurious camping experience in my opinion. Boats are awesome!
We were all little intimidated by the long paddle upstream as in our pre-trip meeting back in Santa Barbara, we were warned that, "You may start to hate your partner by the end of it." It didn't help that as we stood riverside with paddles in hand another party took off from Willow Beach getting towed in a canoe-train by a motorboat. Where was our motorboat?
Fortunately, the wind, water and weather gods were on our side that first day and throughout. It was a mellow morning spent mostly figuring out the communication between front paddlers and back drivers and getting to know the maneuverings of the canoe itself. We all had it down by early afternoon and reached the lunch stop before we were even hungry.
Our campsite, though, wasn't love at first site. We beached the boats and beheld a bustling tent metropolis of people, pit toilets, fire rings, canopied kitchens and, even an American flag.
This is the best campsite?
We found space for our group of 20, dropped our dry bags and trekked back to the boats to unload. Big Rubbermaid bins of food, kitchen equipment, water jugs and coolers, coolers, coolers … teamwork everyone!
Once we laid out our sleeping quarters and the kitchen area, we had just enough time for a big pre-dinner surprise. A few dozen feet from our campsite was a trailhead leading to an absolutely enchanting hike through a slot canyon. There were bursts of warm air around every corner and the stream at our feet was noticeably warmer than the river water. Soon we came to a rusty cable ladder up a small waterfall. I didn't stop to question its integrity, way too invested and curious at this point. I just scaled it and rejoiced in finding steaming sulfurous pools. I had found hot spring heaven!
There were three pools varying in degrees of hotness. Our group filled the middle pool and I was delighted to not be outnumbered by naked old men, a creature I find most hot springs to contain. It was glorious in the water but unfortunately I was on the first dinner crew and had to leave earlier than every one else. I resolved to come back later that night, a decision that turned out to be one of the best experiences of the trip.
After a hearty pasta dinner I returned to a now empty hot spring haven. With no conversation to overpower the sensation, the water seemed a little softer, a little warmer, the trickle louder, and the canyon walls closed in overhead to create a crescent view of the night sky. It was as if the constellations were smiling at me.
I returned to my tent quite literally a happy camper and, despite the loud group of the beer drinkers in the camp adjacent ours, slept like a baby. They couldn't possibly penetrate peaceful dreams of floating down the Colorado River with birds chirping and fish surfacing to feed, together with the trickling of the hot springs. As I drifted off to sleep, I had no idea there would be more surprises in store. Many more.
We woke early the next morning to prepare for a long day of upstream paddling. Our destination: the Hoover Dam. I had never seen the great dam from a water view before and was pretty excited. It was another calm morning of paddling, singing, and observing wildlife and historical structures. Once, as we stopped to look at an old cliff-side lookout station built for the dam workers, someone spotted something on the opposite side of the river. We all scooted across and fell silent. It's a rare opportunity to see a family of Big Horn Sheep feeding right near the shore.
We floated quietly by and continued on to the dam. The 730' x 1250' concrete slab is a force to be reckoned with and a site to behold from the water. It is composed of 4.36 million cubic yards of concrete, which would have taken 125 years to cool if it had been constructed in one continuous poor. Instead, blocking it together in separate trapezoidal columns and running steel cooling pipes throughout allowed it to cool in just 20 months. Apparently, it is still curing and gaining strength as time goes on.
We sat there marveling at the engineering feat until a powerful voice announced: "Back AWAY from the blockade." Apparently, in our awestruck state, we let the bow of one of our boats slip a smidge past the floating barrier. Evidently, a big no-no. We paddled on.
Another great surprise was Gold Strike Canyon. The beach there isn't much to look at and you probably wouldn't stop if you didn't know what it had to offer. Luckily, those in the know were guiding us. A short hike from the beach, this canyon boasts a beautiful array of colors you wouldn't think possible in a riparian environment. And I suggest finishing your visit to Gold Strike with a hot spring shower under a green-hued waterfall.
But there's more. Because just when you think there is nothing left to do in Black Canyon on the Colorado River, our guides lead us to another stop on the opposite bank. I remembered my boss saying something about a sauna cave and almost jumped for joy out of my boat. We waded through a small cove that parallels the river and walked up to an inconspicuous hole in the side of the cliff.
The cave was originally drilled during the building of the dam but was declared unusable for what became obvious reasons. The first step in greets you with an almost suffocating burst of hot air. As you plunge deeper, the heat thickens and the oxygen thins. You find yourself shedding clothing and pouring precious drinking water over your sweat-covered body. The cave walls are a cloudy, calcified white. After hundreds of feet, it abruptly ends. We spent the rest of the afternoon sitting side-by-side, bathed in a dragon's breath of air, and singing in the deepest reaches of this fascinating cavern.
We topped off our visit with a burst from the Sauna Cave and a straight run into the cold river, a much-needed wake-up call before the four-mile jaunt back to camp. Along the way, someone called for a moment of silence as the sun was going down. We all stopped paddling and drifted downstream. I laid back and watched the cliff tops floating by and then it was back to Boy Scout Canyon for more food, fires, and yes, a late night stroll to the hot springs. I could get used to this. BE
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Profile

Interview and Photos by Steve Munch
Dustin Willman
age 18,
Ventura
There's two reasons for choosing Dustin for this month's profile.
First, he recently turned 18 and is now in the late stage of his grom skin shed.
Second, I want to answer the question I am asked far too often while photographing on the beach. Who is that guy?
Your style looks very familiar to another Ventura local. Any influence there?
Yeah! Dane Reynolds, for sure.
I'm pretty lucky to get to surf with so many talented people.
Sean Hayes, Adam Virs, and Dane.
I watch everything these guys do.
You can really learn a lot by paying attention to the guys who are throwing down the big tricks.
What would you consider your favorite trick?
Wow, that's a hard one.
I would have to say the air reverse, because I have so many variables to that trick. Yea I'm pretty confident with that one.
Big airs and broken boards go hand in hand.
How's the relationship with your board sponsor?
It's good.
Robert (Roberts Surfboards) is so cool.
He has been my board sponsor since I was like a mini grom.
Anyway, I'm pretty easy on boards I guess and I'm really thankful for the support.
What new trick can we expect to see in the future?
I've been working on a trick called a corrupt flip.
It's a combination of an inverted spin and an alley oop.
It's going to be pretty insane when I get it down.
What is your strategy when it comes to competitions?
>Nothing changes.
I go with my strengths.
I just throw down as many tricks as I can.
I know if I stick my landings, I'm moving on to the next round.
And if you don't?
I'm goin' surfing!
How do you get yourself psyched up before a contest?
I usually put on my head phones and listen to music with a good flow.
Then I just relax and try to visualize my waves, and see myself making all my tricks.
I just keep myself really positive.
What's a typical day for you?
That's not hard to answer.
I like to wake up, eat, surf, then eat some more, and then surf.
What are your short and long term goals?
This year I'm planning on competing in as many pro junior events as I can.
As far as long term, I would like to see myself in the Top 10 on the ASP-WQS Tour Thanks for taking the time from your busy schedule and talking with me.I need to ask you, what the @#!% is that noise coming from your speakers? Slip Knot.Sick, huh!
2007 Stats
The list is long and impressive. Here are a few highlights:
ISF State Champion for Ventura High School 2007, Third Place- ISF State championships (Team), First Place ISF State Championships (individual- State Title), First Place Volcom Sea Slug Series, First Place Volcom "el Porto", Second Place Volcom Hermosa Beach, Third Place Volcom Manhattan beach.
Sponsors
Roberts Surfboards, Shower Bomb, Freestyle watches, One Way Boardshop, No Fear.
Interview and photos by Craig Hamlin
Eric Knowles
age 26,
Oceano
How did you get started surfing?
I got kind of a late start at 15.
My mom moved my younger brother Jason and I out here from Michigan.
We were in the water the very next day on boogies.
About six months later my buddy Mike gave me a 6'0" G&S six channel single fin. I was hooked.
Who influences you in surfing?
Rob Machado, Occy of course, my brothers backhand attack, Matt Gallagher's aerials, Dog Face and Hula for being the nicest people in the water all the time, Bud Love, Tom and Frank Richardson's power, and the Santa Cruz Chihuahua.
Who influences you in life?
The guy in the sky, my mom, my brother Jason, my 9-year-old son Gavin, and my girlfriend, Lisa.
What do you like to do besides surf?
I try to stay away from doing other sports; I always seem to hurt myself. The last time I went downhill mountain biking, I crashed going about 15 mph. I split my elbow wide open and had to get 16 stitches. I like checking out tide pools. Other than that, my mom once tried to teach me how to crochet.
What's a typical day for you?
People say that I have a pretty good lifestyle. I'm a server at a restaurant inside the Dolphin Bay Resort in Shell Beach. I surf all day, work in the evening, and make enough money to have plenty of fun. Most of my friends say I'm more amped on surfing than a frothing grommet. They tell me I put in more marathon sessions than anyone they know. My day starts off with a surf check phone call from my brother usually way to early in the morning, coffee and breakfast about 8 a.m., then I check Surfline. This usually gives me a good indication on where I'm going to surf. I usually surf somewhere between Guadalupe and Shell Beach most days. Around 8:30 my cell starts to blow up with people wanting to surf.
Most days I reluctantly end up surfing closeouts at Pismo with Walt. My afternoon consists of much of the same until I go to work. The surf around here is pretty horrible but there's always a lot of it to surf. There is usually always something to ride.
Any plans for the future?
I plan on finishing school, surfing more with my son, El Salvador or Nicaragua this summer, and refining the art of back paddling. Lots of people say I'm already pretty good at that though, I'm just really competitive. I'd really like to go skydiving; my girlfriend has gone 132 times. She surfs once and a while but she says surfing is kind of for wussies.
Is there anyone that you want to thank?
All my sponsors, B-dub for putting up with me as a roommate, Matt for having that tunnel vision chat with me at Jalama. I owe you one Pat.
Do you have any last words?
Try to surround your life with good people. Chances are they'll rub off on you. Travel as much as you possibly can. Have fun.
Sponsors
Monument Board Shop, Truth Soul Armor Clothing, Xcel Wetsuits, Roberts Surfboards, Da kine Surf Accessories.

Last Wave

Hawaiian Pokie Pokie
By Dr. Warren Patch
Cartoon by Jerry King


Traveling to Hawaii with the Ocean Beach Geriatric Surf Club and Precision Marching Surfboard Drill Team and Gidget Patrol is always a hoot.
Talk about low budget: our weeklong Hawaiian vacation cost us only four hundred bucks each! That's for round-trip air fair, ground transfers, and a Waikiki hotel two blocks from the beach.
The club had surely outdone itself on this vacation package. The brochure claimed that our rooms were complete with view, refrigerator and hot plate.
However, we had been warned, "There's cheap, and there's special, but cheap isn't very special."
Well, one of the two "blocks" to the beach was across the army park and it must have been a half-mile-wide.
Our "view" was of the building across the street.
The reefer could hold a six-pack-and-a-half if you used the door to hold three of the cans.
And the "hot plate" consisted of the warmer ring under the little coffee pot.
But, we were in paradise for a week and we were duty-bound to make the most of it.
On the airplane ride over, we discussed the difference between how big California waves are at two-to-three feet versus two-to-three feet Hawaiian style waves.
The former are hip-high, the latter are three feet over your head! Was the difference the size of a Hawaiian's foot?
Or, maybe they're just so much braver over there that it should be called the "Hawaiian Lion Scale."
Personally, I think it's just the big wave fear-factor kicking in and surfers want to look cool by underrating the size.
So, I refer to it as the "Hawaiian Lyin' Scale."
Right off the plane we headed straight to The Big Kahuna's for pizza.
The menu said that a medium pizza feeds two-to-three people. Since there were three of us, and we were really hungry (and a second medium pizza was only an additional five bucks), we ordered two.
Those "Kahlua Pig and BBQ Sauce" pizzas must have had two pounds of pork on each of ‘em.
Like the sign said, "Da buggas are loaded!"
The three of us could not even finish one of the pizzas. The second one got boxed-up and went with us to the hotel. Reflecting on our in-flight speculations about Hawaiian style, we realized our error: the medium sized pizza feeds two-to-three Hawaiians.
Every activity was abundantly fun.
Since we brought 40 members of our surf club we never lacked a party. One day it was mai tais and Duke Kahanamoku statue photo shoots at Kuhio Beach. My wife and I rented a 12-foot tandem board and I took her surfing.
It was a scream.
There were already 14 people on one wave but we jumped on anyway. I had to keep yelling, "Look out!" to the clueless tourists in front of us who didn't have sense enough to get out of the way of our 400-pound rudderless barge. We laughed our butts off.
The laugh therapy continued into the night as my wife and I lay in bed, ate leftover Big Kahuna Pizza (warmed up one slice at a time on the coffee maker), drank beer and watched Stooge TV.
After an hour of slapstick eyeball poking, nose tweaking and cranium thumping, we finally fell asleep.
The next day I decided to go surfing at a very popular surf spot that is fairly localized. Walking across the parking lot, I heard someone call my name. Looking up I saw a friend who I hadn't seen in eight years. He gave me a friendly warning: "Hey, Warren, you better watch out. There is a criminal out there."
"You're kidding?" I asked, hoping that he was.
"No. He just got out of prison and he is spoiling for a fight."
"Uh-oh. What does he look like?"
"His name is Buster and he's a real thick guy. You'll know him when you see him.
He's going aggro — trying to catch all the waves. He thinks he's a hot surfer but he's really a kook.
He's taking off in front of people who have waited their turn for outside set waves. I saw him do a cutback in front of one guy and fall off.
His own board went over the falls and conked him on the head.
I don't need that kind of aggravation so I just went in. You know, it only takes one guy like that to ruin it for everyone. Maybe you better surf somewhere else."
"Ah, don't worry," I said. "I'll just keep a neutral attitude and a low profile and stay out of his way. But thanks for the warning.
I appreciate it."
So I paddled out slowly and kept my eyes open. Sure enough, I spotted the one to avoid. I waited a long time to catch a clean wave by myself, but on my first wave the guy took off in front of me — half way through my ride. Every time he drove his board up to the top of the wave, he would throw his shoulders around real hard and look to see where I was. It looked like he may have been setting up to collide with me. But I was staying back pretty far behind him, so he really couldn't hit me.
After three checks over his shoulder he kicked-out and grunted, "Go ahead!" so I dutifully finished what was left of my ride.
On my way back out, I paddled the long way around to other side of the outer reef. After a half-hour wait, a perfect left peak came straight to me. The guys to my left looked my way and respectfully asked, "You go left, brah?"
"Yeah, thanks.
I'll go left."
But Buster paddled across the reef and squeezed in front of me just as the wave arrived. He took off and never looked back. He couldn't have known that I was standing switch-foot directly behind him, facing the wave, while he surfed backside in front of me. When the wave closed-out on both of us we had no other choice but to straighten off. But Buster didn't just straighten off — he started to make a hard cutback right into me. I made a little "Whoa!" noise as I initiated a sharp turn to avoid the collision.
I had to thrust my leading hand forward to counterbalance my sudden backward lean. At that very moment, Buster swung his head and shoulders around violently, and his left eyeball was impaled upon my right index finger. I could feel his eyeball squirming around like a wet grape, as my finger was jammed into his eye socket and braced across the bridge of his nose.
Screaming like a child, Buster dove off his board, clutching both hands around his eyeball. I managed to stay balanced on my board for two more seconds before I fell off, thus giving myself 10 feet of clearance from the dangerous man in the white water who was frothing at the mouth.
"Hey bro, you OK?" I said with as much concern in my voice as I could contrive.
"Ooh you muthu f***in' haole, you poke me right in da eye!!" he cried, without taking his hands off the left eye or even opening the right one.
"Sorry bro. No intention," I replied in my most innocent voice.
"You betta get daf***outta hea befo' I drown you!"
"OK, man. See ya."
Psheww! I was gone on the next wave before he could recover.
"And that's the second time you dropped in on me, you muthaf***a!"
I could hear his shouting fade into the distance as I rode prone toward the beach. I kept my head down all the way. I never looked back. Luckily, the wave took me clear to the beach and, when I reached the sand, I made tracks. I ran across the parking lot, threw my board on the rental car, affixed one strap and hauled it out of there. I didn't even change out of my wet clothes. I wasn't taking any chances.
Later, when I surfed at the spot, I went in disguise. Instead of wearing a white rash guard, I wore a blue one.
Instead of a hat, I substituted earplugs.
And I switched boards too — a long board with a rainbow instead of a short board with a rainbow. That way Buster wouldn't recognize me (even if I was the only haole out there). And if he did, maybe I could paddle faster and get away on my long board.
But Buster never came back. No one has seen him since. I don't know why. But I'll tell you one thing, I sure feel lucky to have gotten out of there with my life and my eyeballs intact. BE Hawaiian Pokie Pokie is one of a series of short stories compiled by Dr. Warren Patch called "Endless Childhood; The Surfer's Lifestyle". Read more of Dr. Patch's stories on BlueEdge's "Last Wave In" page in coming issues. BE