Wednesday, 27 July 2011


gone surfing
See ya in a couple of weeks...

Monday, 25 July 2011


ray pettibon

My faithful old beach towel - faded & threadbare - finally got retired at the weekend.

This Raymond Pettibon towel would surely make a fine replacement.

Do clickage if you wanna read the little writing at the top.

Sunday, 24 July 2011



Parts of Kernow have been rubbed smooth and characterless by the many millions of 'relocation' pound notes that were used to transform Cornwall into a handy suburb-by-the-sea for wealthy urbanites. But there remains a place that despite the braying crowds of incomers is still resolutely itself; quite scruffy, a bit rough around the edges and often just a few inches away from anarchy.

It's a place of high unemployment matched by equally high self-regard. A place where three generations from local families still live. A place that knows its own place, in fact.

A small village in a coastal valley where a handful of simple beachside flats - built over forty years ago - are still to this day occupied by low wage-earners and those on benefits. Not pretty buildings by any means, but they're certainly not the generic, unimaginative, over-developed, over-priced 'lifestyle' apartments that have appeared in almost every other coastal town.

Circa 1955.

Unlike so many other similar spots up and down the coast that have become empty places, occupied only occasionally by owners that live many miles away. This understated little settlement has quietly carried on being home to its inhabitants.

It also happens to have been blessed with a beach that consistently manages to produce some of the best beachbreak waves around. But beware, the best of those sweet, steep waves will not be freely available, for they will nearly always be ridden by the best surfers - those who happen to live within striking distance - and they will be on it every time there's a hint of swell.

But it's a special place to me for all the above reasons and more, and I fucking love it.

Friday, 22 July 2011



Nice little set of photos from the land of the long white cloud.

Thursday, 21 July 2011


big blue
Jean Reno as Enzo

Should watch this again as well..

Wednesday, 20 July 2011


Betty et Zorg

Must watch this again - makes me feel like Summer again...

Tuesday, 19 July 2011

i'm thinking about it...

Monday, 18 July 2011


fox pounce
via tumblr

Friday, 15 July 2011


Global Cornwall @ the Asylum 25th July 2011

Event coming soon - with Kneehigh & Chris Hines involved you know it's gonna be interesting as well as good fun.

Wednesday, 13 July 2011


Panda Bear - Surfer's Hymn. A tribute to surfers taken by the sea apparently.

Monday, 11 July 2011



A lot of surfers play guitar - and a few even play while they're actually surfing.
Wondering just how they manage to do it..? Paddle with the instrument strapped across their back, followed by a very swift grab and strum perhaps?

donny surf guitar
Donavon Frankenreiter

Thursday, 7 July 2011


Whenever the surf got big, he would appear, without fail. Often there would be no-one out at all; just too wild and wooly, whitewater everywhere, any green waves were marbled with ribbons of white. "Not rideable," was the common consensus on the balcony of the surf club. But he'd stroll across the grass of the beachside reserve often barechested even in the Sydney winter. With his thick brown hair swept straight back from his forehead and a full beard he reminded me a bit of Grizzly Adams. Always in plain red boardshorts, usually a smoke in one hand, his yellowed board under the other arm it was impossible to judge his age. Maybe thirty something or possibly even a decade older. The lack of any grey in the whiskers and the taut athletic body coupled with a brightness in his eyes and a lightness to his step made him ageless. On first name terms with all the usual beachfront crew he was never the less a bit of a lone wolf, always traveling solo.

Most surfers would be fizzing with anticipation as they approached the shore, trotting like nervous ponies across the sands. He never hurried. Just walked casually to the northern side of the bay, not even seeming to check the surf on the way. Not that there was much to see apart from lumpy, slow-moving mounds of water. Occasionally the swirling mass would line up and a wave would form way out the back, offering the chance of a clean face amongst the chaos, but it would be a deceptively heavy, seething, unorganised roller that could just as quickly fold under its own weight and dump itself in an explosion of frothing whitewater.

At the water's edge he'd nonchalantly flick his cigarette butt away, drop his board in the sand and tie his leggie around his ankle. Then without haste or panic he'd lunge into the shoredump and stroke swiftly toward the rip that ran out past the sea pool. With the big southerly swell pouring into the bay, the current was moving fast back out along the north side and he was soon swept past the rocks and out into the middle of the bay.

Soon he was just a small, distant shape, defiant amongst the heaving green and white. He would disappear from sight, nowhere to be seen and then reappear fifty metres away, paddling purposefully even further out to sea as a huge set growled in from around the headland. Up and over the first unbroken wave he went, just a sliver silhouetted against a long wall of rising water. As the next wave seemed to draw itself up in menacingly slow-motion he spun around and paddled hard down the dark slope. The wall grew taller and he actually drifted back up the face with the tremendous flow of water. But gravity took over as the wave toppled forward and he sprang to his feet as the lip snarled all around him. He dropped almost vertically down the face and dug a deep bottom turn. Still, he seemed at ease, although there was now a vitality in his movements, a restrained energy to his body that allowed him to surf confidently with power yet smoothly without wasted effort. So many of the other local surfers, even the good ones, moved too jerkily, overdid everything and were self conscious. Whereas even here, in this angry sea, as he swooped back up the face of a wave that was at least triple overhead, he was surfing beautifully. Just the right amount of torque to send a fan of spray out over the back of the lip, a perfectly timed turn followed by a smooth flowing down the line carve, a long arcing cutback and a quick flickout before the section slammed itself onto the inside bank. It was just text book surfing in the most unorthodox of conditions, the fluid definition of grace under pressure.

He'd paddle back out through the maelstrom to get a couple more subtley epic rides against all the odds and then catch one in. Seemingly satisfied that he'd done justice to both himself and the swell. Back on the beach, he'd maybe have a quick chat to some of the crew before strolling off down one of the side streets, barefoot, still dripping wet from the sea. As he never came by car I assume he lived nearby - a real local you might say.

Monday, 4 July 2011


More days like that please..

Friday, 1 July 2011


Today's waste of time...

1977 - Ty Page and pals.

1979 - Eddie Elguera.

1978 - Ellen Berryman & Bob Mohr. Tight and tash-tastic.

1978 - Bobby Piercy.

1978 - Stacey Peralta shot by Warren Bolster strobe cam.

1979 - Vans advert.

Scarily I remember most of these. With no videos, DVDs or internets in those days the US mags were the only way to access the info and like a lot of kids I used to study those mags for hours, and when I say 'study' I mean 'STUDY!' I would have confidently gone on Mastermind with '70s Skateboard Magazines' as my specialist subject!