Índice para Issue 596 em Tracks

At the end of 2019, Jacob Willcox is sitting in the swirl of a disjointed Haleiwa lineup. There are a few seconds to go in the heat and he’s in second place. Progression would mean qualification for the CT. Kelly Slater, however, takes off in the white-water, lying prone on a 5’3” Cymatic snub-nosed quad. He simultaneously stands up and does a bottom turn and heads towards the lip before the wave closes out. He performs a tight, technical, and theatrical turn. It’s not in the lip and is pulled short so he can ride out in an avalanche of foam. The crowd goes wild, but he needs a big number. “He got totally juiced,” Willcox tells Tracks. “They gave him the score, and some. That meant I needed a…

After finishing a five-year engineering degree, Lachlan McArthur wanted to see the world before he fully committed to a career. The part-time lifeguard saved-up and planned a six-month sojourn that aimed to intertwine fabled waves with whirlwind adventures and cultural epicentres. In six months he traversed 22 countries in total. It was an odyssey replete with hollow waves, hard lessons, dramatic revelations and occasional calamities. Much more than just a surf trip, it was a transcendent experience, which took Lachie across borders into strange lands, and carried him well beyond the fringes of his comfort zone. Saved by a Screen Saver There’s a particular photo of Teahupo’o that has been my screen saver for as long as I can remember. Chained to a desk in a corporate role the image’s…

I will introduce this piece by first introducing myself. You could say I’m a surfer, although I’m not that great at it, since I grew up in Melbourne and never got to spend enough time in the water. Unfortunately, wind waves don’t break off the St Kilda pier too often. I am a solo artist by the name of Abraham Kenny (aka The Diamond Blow), a musician currently on tour in Ukraine, playing shows in an act of solidarity with the Ukrainian people against Russia’s invasion. In 2007, I left Australia with one hundred copies of my first album packed into my suitcase to become a ‘famous’ artist in Northern Europe, don’t ask me why. After living in Stockholm for two years and working as a postman, I eventually moved…

WHEN PEOPLE HAVE AN ENTRENCHED, RUSTED ON IDEA OF HOW THINGS ARE, IT TAKES A LOT TO SHATTER THEIR PARADIGM, PARTICULARLY IF THE THING THEY ARE CLINGING TO IS, OR WAS, HIGHLY DESIRABLE. IT’S UNDERSTANDABLE; WHO’D WANT TO BE PULLED OUT OF A WARM BATH AND TURFED INTO A MISERABLE BLIZZARD? Take the North Coast of NSW. It is a geographical Disneyland for surfers, especially natural footers, with some of the finest right point breaks in the world scattered like sparkling jewels between Crescent Head and The Pass. People speak of these sacred temples - Crescent, Scotts, Angourie, Lennox, Broken Head, The Pass – as if it was 1965. Listening in to some of these delusional conversations, you’d swear you could just mosey on down to Lennox or Broken with…

01 LIGHTBOX SURFER: RUSSELL BIERKE  PHOTO: ARTHUR PICARD Photographer, Aurthur Picard, had pledged to traverse Scotland and Ireland by train rather than be complicit in the airline industry’s contribution to fossil fuel emissions. Public transport made timing his run for waves more difficult, but the serendipity kicked in when he reached the west coast of Ireland. After trekking through the dark and scaling the fabled cliffs of Moher, Aurthur found himself bobbing in frigid waters alongside filmer Joao Tudella. As it happened, the tight pack of surfers taking on Aileen’s that day included Australian Russell Bierke. Aurthur takes over from here in his Frenchy English. “For more than two hours the sets follow one another, and with João, we are at the front row of a magnificent spectacle. The riders…

The Black Camel. It’s got a ring to it, doesn’t it? I’ve never been one to name vehicles, always seen them more as an extension of a lifestyle than their own personal entity, but I reckon this one has stuck. Never thirsty, always dry, said Nath, a brash, long-haired Aussie out in the surf. And yeah. It feels fitting riding this empty, scorched 500km long road, through barren corn-fields and half-baked fishing villages. I’m in a hurry to get across this island to its eastern port, but I’m worried that the rush might not be warranted. In the more populated parts of Indo, ferries run to some kind of regular schedule, at least by Indonesian standards. Maybe every hour, notwithstanding the lengthy delays. Here, they run every week. There is…

10:42am Thursday 16th November: A message came through on the WhatsApp chat from Tyler Hollmer-Cross, “Thinking about a Pedra mission Sunday.” Instantly, I check the maps. I’m not sure why, as I have no idea what to look for, but within a few hours it’s on. Boats are being organised – skis, photogs, filmers and rescue crew. Being a 17-year-old grom on this WhatsApp feed I know my place – seen and not heard. The leaders sort it all. I have rung Ty and secured a spot, excitement levels through the roof. Didn’t get the nod last time they went down, definitely wasn’t ready. Not even sure if I am ready now. This group of Tasmaniacs (surfers, boogers, filmers, photogs) have been in my life for a few years now.…

We all think about it. Quitting the nine to five, packing up the essentials, jetting off to some sun-drenched island to chase waves, purpose, remote work and freedom, I guess. Here’s my experience of doing exactly that; a raw, unfiltered take on island fever. Indonesia is a place where the currency of waves tracks high and chaos runs rampant. I recently made Bali my Indo base for a year and a half of my life; a time span that seems at once remarkably long and somehow short – a sort of fever dream that has come to an end. I think it’s standard to assume life is better in the Indonesian archipelago, on most days your hardest decision is determining which beach to park up at and what board to…

I make the throat-slitty sign at photographer Nathan Oldfield, dragging four fingers across my neck with a grimace to let him know that we’re done. Blood is seeping down Dave’s arm from a shallow fin chop. Behind him, another peeling six-foot Nihiwatu set goes unridden like the archetypal surf mirage. Dave’s shifting his feet unstably up the sand. I wonder how bad this one’s going to be. He collapses in a cursing heap next to me. We almost didn’t make it to Indonesia at all this year. The endless illnesses of Kindergarten had their way with us, virus after virus. Whether by nature or by culture, as we get older it seems like we tend toward being homeostasis machines. We’re good at reading the patterns and reproducing routes. Routines lay…

Bill Morris’s infatuation with G-Land began a little over four decades ago. Since then, he’s answered the call of the jungle more than 20 times. As a committed surfer he’s always juggled his barrel ambitions with his love for photography. Fortunately, G-Land with its otherworldly reef, critical tidal fluctuations, curious wildlife, and colourful pilgrims, is the sort of wonderland that facilitates immersion in both his passions. In the following feature, Bill recounts the hard-won glories of his first trip and provides insight into some of his favourite photographic moments over the years. THE FIRST TIME In late September 1982, I arranged for my good friend, Jay Carter, who was already in Bali, to pick me up at Denpasar airport. I was 22, and after my first trip the year before…

Many people go to the Maldives on their honeymoon. I got married at the back end of COVID-19, and while the island nation was high on our holiday hot list after restrictions lifted, overseas travel wasn’t immediately an option. Our actual honeymoon in December 2021 was a rained-out few days on the NSW south coast. Both of us are surfers so this could have been a laidback trip in old stomping grounds where I learned to stand up; were it not cut short when the Airbnb flooded. That less-than-idyllic experience has been a source of much laughter and many pub stories since. It also provides an impressive dichotomy, and low benchmark to vault over, when we finally do paddle into the shimmering walls of the Indian Ocean two years later.…

To pinpoint when I first met and surfed with Peter Townend would be a guess. In the late 60s/early 70s I was surfing North Narrabeen and would be onboard Col Smith’s VW Combi for the annual sojourn to the Coolangatta area, so that seems to make sense. To me ‘PT’ was always the perennial ‘professional surfer’, determined to make a living out of something he loved, and dedicated to seeing surfing grow into a recognised sport. I knew he was a couple of years older than me and from a different socioeconomic background. It was surprising for me to discover he began surfing at 14 in 1967; entered his first competition in 1969 and was soon shaping his own boards. I was gifted my first balsa cutdown/reshape for my ninth…