the surf photographer * appreciation month * brodad There are few things more intrinsic to the spread of surfing than photography. With surf cams, Instagram and the now all pervasive selfie, surf photography is morphing into never before realms. Growing up learning how to surf in the 70s, ‘twas cover 2 cover and back and then forth again, completely taken and intoxicated by the both of Surfer and Surfing magazines. The iconic shots were of Lopez sliding into frontdoor Pipe, PT in pink, Bertleman’s hair and Buttons on a swivel. For myself I could not get the Barry Kanaiaupuni bottom turn out of my head, or the Bob Cooper fin free fall, air drop landing photo, nor would I soon forget the black & white pic of (Dick) Brewer presiding over Reno (Abellira) and Gerry (Lopez) doing headstands. |
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Barry Kanaiaupuni bottom turn * Sunset Beach * photo Art Brewer 1971 |
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Dick Brewer (all smiles), Gerry Lopez (left) Reno Abellira (right) * photo David Darling * Honolulu 1969 |
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My personal relationship with photography was slight or spotty at best. My high school math teacher was mom to now famed North Shore photog Jim Russi. He graduated from Brooks Institute of Photography in Santa Barbara/Montecito and had crazy westside stories of having to retrieve his stolen camera gear/equipe from the leeward/Makaha side of the island with Johnny Boy’s help and assistance. He also befriended the lone North Shore fem photographer at the time, Shirley Rogers, and later came out of his drugs, sex and rock ‘n roll phase to the otherside of being a minister and family man. |
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Ironically enough we grew up surfing in what was virtually a no photo zone, where a surf photographer welcome sign was nowhere to be found. And then somehow we both made it to Oahu. |
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rainbow rider * Keoki Saguibo at Ehukai Beach Park * photo Jim Russi |
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Taking a sabbatical from UC San Diego and Black’s, and with the help of fellow locals Carlos Anorga and Kelly Logan, I landed on Puula Road, just up the street from the local fire station and in the duplex below also famed surf photographer Jeff Hornbaker and a coupla few of the Pipeline Underground, namely Brian Bulkley and Bruce Hansel. To date I had not even the lone surf photo to hang my hat on. In high school we ventured to northern Baja (K59 ?), and while I had the ill fortune of being on the short end of the before and after, La Fonda off the lip shots, and never a spot on photo at the point of impact, which was a bit of a downer given that I was doing pretty well save for the baby blue oversized clunker I was riding. And ditto for in college as I was party to a Black’s Beach bottom turn of mistaken identity as my friend’s girlfriend took the photo, albeit he claimed it was of himself, despite a contrary opinion or coupla few, and suffice it to say that I never got a copy of the shot. And then there was Backdoor and finally getting a wave or two on my new Angulo, only to have it buckle right after a photog was moving over to set up after seeing a wave or two of mine. And then just out of college ‘twas Jorge McFarland and his Scorpio Surf Tours that had us and Surfing mag photog Mike Balzer as guests to Isla Natividad off central Baja, that I most fortunately found myself absolutely stuffed within an open doors, pulsing green barrel of spinning wheel perfection, and to which Mike had his fist raised in the air in exultation after getting what he claimed was a photo fit for the mag. And then there was almost the next wave after that, and Chris Billy pulling into an even more epic liquid escapade, and my purported pulp worthy photo forever lost within the bottomless pit of the Surfing mag photo vaults. And so it went as this is all again a bit on the ironic side, as have never been one much to get my photo taken, albeit as a Leo I can’t say that I don’t like the good one off photo of myself, especially of surfing, and for that as it turns out, I have one. Back again on Oahu and this time staying at the Kuilima condos and about to go out for a surf, a visiting Italian who neither surfed nor spoke much in the way of English, was insistent that he wanted to come along and take photos (of me). I laughed and explained that he would soon have his pick of the best surfers in the world all along the North Shore. We pulled up to a straight north swell firing pukas aplenty from Pupukea to Rocky Rights, that was like maxed out/double overhead Kaisers barrels, or more like your local surf smorgasbord, up and down the Ehukai beachfront there. Back on the beach I had most all forgot about him and his camera as he tried to hand signal to me (the disbelieving eye) that he had gotten the (all time) shot. Again with little thought for things as back then it took a coupla few to get your photos “developed,” we were back at the hostel and now shuffling thru his gets, and with nothing but the usual half baked shots, until the one with a folding sheet in front of me, still visible thru the window, and streaking for the exit, came true (who knew). |
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Rocky Rights * circa 1987 |
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In hindsight I coulda, woulda, shoulda believed him as ‘twas good, really good Gas Chambers. The follow up to that was later living walking distance from Waimea. Coming home from work one day I was greeted by rescue helicopters hovering over the surf at the Bay. Back home at Mark Foo’s house, I answered the phone and turns out ‘twas the editor of Surfing magazine, Bill Sharp. He wanted to know what was happening with the swell and which photo was “thee” photo. As it turns out had seen some on the kitchen table and was taken of one with James Jones’ board floating precariously up the face and underneath it all, a 30-40 foot near closeout, with a 70-80 something foot face, and with just that little wee bit of humanity holding out under a virtual mountain of whitewater and wave, something akin to a modern David and Goliath, James Jones and his Waimea Bay (he was safely rescued by helicopter). |
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And so it goes of our “ongrowing” surf story. The surf photographer bears witness to the litany of our near misses and almost got ‘ems, our “thrill of victory and agony of defeat,” and all within our wide world of surfing. The photog brings it home to us. In our best efforts to chronicle our surfing years, the surf photographer is on the front lines in documenting and logging “her story” as ocean blue and green apogee. They are the cultural anthologists and historical curators and custodians of this world we call surf. Thank you to the photogs for being the all seeing eyes of the surfing world, and for bringing the beauty and joy of surfing to light. Thank you for keeping on with the keeping on. See it true, see it thru. |
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The brodad lives for surf fantasy. She is in a state of total wonderment and awe, and completely taken by our surf culture. He is a bookworm and knows the history of surfing. She knows of our roots. He is a people pleaser, she a people person. She’s our resident, boardwalk bon vivant. He’s not a bad guy at all. The brodad is everybody’s friend. He has a car, is in with the chicks, and is goin’ to the party. She is our favorite, faux bohemian surf cat. She always makes the scene. She knows the lingo and is familiar with most all of our idiosyncrasies and idioms. His is an inquiring mind, and has big memory. Often opinionated, he can be expansive, and offers mind boggling commentary. She always has a different perspective and counterpoint. He has contrary medicine. She is the endless epigram, and him a regular jargon Jack, whose random ramble, may actually foretell the future. They’re always talkin’ story. She’s the spectator surfer who always wants to know what’s up. He’s Mr. Prediction, a weather addict with the perfect equipment, that ironically, doesn’t get much use. He’s cloaked as a surfer, but is more the surf bather. She is a very average surfer. She rides the shoulder and sits in the channel, and is content just daytrippin’ along. The brodad is full of zest, and yet is still the quintessential quasi surfer. The brodad don’t surf, and hasn’t gotten wet. She is a virtual teetotaler when it comes to salt water wine. He is our surf lackey, and local toad head. The surf plebian is resigned to a peripheral caste in our surf world. Their priorities are out of order. She heads hinterland when the waves hit. When it gets big, he just goes home…. and does his laundry. His unexplained hiatus reveals a halfhearted approach that lacks commitment. He can’t keep a promise, to himself or others. He is without follow thru. His abstinence leaves him feeling impotent. She is a landlubber and tenuous pseudo surfer, and he an ersatz surfer who blows fickle with the wind. Contrived chameleon, she doesn’t take things seriously, and in turn is not taken seriously herself. Real substance is lacking. The brodad doesn’t really “know the feeling.” She never really lets go, as she’s doubtful she can really pull it off. He is legionnaire of the “unjazzed,“ and privately broods. She holds on to her point of view, or goes about face, as he goes in circles instead of down the line. On information overload, the brodad can be of overbearing intellect. She is overly curious and always has a question. He is Senor Porque. The brodad is a threat to lesser minds and feels shame when others are silent in reply. He’s too much in his head, and sometimes she’s just a little much. As surf music was reverb ridden, broadad speak is adverb ridden. She doesn’t want to hear how lame she is, but will “totally” dish it out. She abuses her charm with white lies that are near farcical, and comes on without a full understanding of things. Others can come unglued around her. He’s sensitive to criticism, but insensitive in his remarks, and limited by a false ego. She is garrulous and a gossip monger, and can even be a liar. He can be misleading. He exaggerates and is the master of oneupmanship. And hers is always the better story, despite the hollow ring. The brodad is a know it all, who’s not in the know. They’re all talk and no show. They haven’t been there yet and don’t walk their talk. The brodad is poseur and charlatan, and pretends to do or be. She hasn’t done zip, and he is an unwanted impresario. Only a fool would take their advice. Theirs is an unfulfilled fantasy. To be a surfer, or not to be? She is the potential real deal, but wants more than she has. Her neediness stems from her envy. His arrogance is his protection. He dwells on himself as part of the food chain and dreads the wild coast as true wilderness. And yet, he still belabors his one session, and we hear about it forever. Is the brodad trying too hard? Uncharacteristic of the true surfer, he feels responsible. He has not surrendered his heart to the ocean. He’s afraid of missing life’s train. He feels pangs of guilt around work and school, afraid he’s not moving forward in his career, and losing valuable time for school work. She’s plagued by nagging feelings as well. She’s a church girl, and afraid she’ll be penalized at Heaven’s Gate. Or is she passing up an opportunity at the altar? Her fear of loss runs deep and is abiding. Has she not felt the love of our Mother Ocean? Care enough to get the whole story. Don’t settle for the obvious. If you listen well, without passing judgment, you will get past the pretense. |
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