the surfers image, how fashion writers see you .. ..

Image 1

<  – – – Here the professional surfer and his babe of the day. He has obviously just emerged from the Makaha surf and has had hardly enough time to pull on his levis before she has thrown him down onto the ground and herself onto him.

Where she hotly sulks, predatorily.

He exhibits an enlarged deltoid and his hair is artfully tossed so as to suggest the rambunctious nature of the surf he has just exited. His jaw is typical of a surfer and is firmly sculptured, however his one thousand yard surfer’s stare has narrowed somewhat to about the distance between his nose and her arse. Virility wins every event here, everytime.

Premium chick-magnet? Bet yo ass mofo, bodies like this don’t come out of gyms, this puresome hunk of tube hunting venom is handcrafted from years in the biggest waves on the planet. This cat is bitchin’.

He is moody, he is intense – note the clenched fist, the downturned mouth. He’d rather be surfin’.

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Image 2

< – – – Here the professional surfer on his downtime. There is a rebelliousness here evident in the logo free black T. Here is a surfing guy whose entire professional life is branded and sponsored by the faceless corporations yet he has the moxy to hit the clubs looking just like one of us. Fit, young, good – looking. Godlike. There is a faint pelvic thrust routine happening here, a suggestion of rampant but contained sexuality. It’s all about self-control, because when we lose it, it stays lost, dude.

There is also danger here however, a lawless undercurrent that surfaces in his clenched left fist, the heavily veined wrist, the don’t fuck with me gaze. The chopped hair, the lack of jewellery. The big guy belt.

No need to have a submissive nubile share this casual shot, this man will pick and choose, later, when things get untidy. One thing though man, when you let me through the club door you do not give me a hand stamp. Ok? – and which way is the porcelain .. I need a surface.

He too is moody, but relaxed, like a panther – a surfin’ cat.

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Image 3

< – – – Here the professional surfer with the Bells Beach Look. Semi-final done and won and a quick change into some warmer gear prior to the next heat. Bells in Easter. Cold water. Hot look.

This coldwater man knows that he must face another hour of intense conditions today, hence the pensive gaze, the determined stare. But even the hardest men suffer for their sport at times and a little emotion is just being human, ergo we have the feminine pout – just a faint suggestion of softness in what is a classic hardweather look.

He’s in the back of the tent, out of everyone’s gaze. He’s watching a replay of his worst scoring ride in the semi-final, just a 8.95. There is some anger here, an indefinable blackness in the gaze.

Too deep man, I took off way to deep, but that’s the only way to beat the champ –

Later he will join the other pros in the press tent for some hard-hitting, in-depth interviews. Then a little Champagne, some Hors d’oeuves, Cicchetti – a slow wind down in good company. Maybe a Charles Bukowski reading.

Probably won’t need the scarf by then , or the gloves. It’s hot to be cool, yo.

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Image 4

< – – – –  Here the professional surfer with the ‘ I don’t wanna go ‘ look. This dude would trade all the fame, the money and girls for some honest surfin’ trade-time down that lonesome beach track where the air is free and the waves are wild.

This is some honest attitude here; a man doesn’t spend his life staring death down the barrel without glimpsing what’s on the other side. So we don’t do our hair, we don’t buy clothes that fit, and we don’t come on for photographers.

This non-conformist has the dead stare of a finalist psyching out his opponent at Banzai Pipeline, or the guy who declines a tow-in at maxed out Chopes. There’s a little Miki Dora here, a darker Dane Reynolds.  A raw but subdued sexuality that suggests an inner turmoil – there is a lot here that needs worrying about.

His parentage is a mystery, rumour has it that he was born of a Hungarian gypsy girl in a refuge caravan on the Russian-Sino border. His father an ex South African Special Forces Brigade member, a Recce.  Hence the coiled yet understated aggression. The slow burning fuse. This pro can erupt so quick we had to shoot this on 1/1000th.

You don’t know me man, nobody knows me, I just surf.

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Image 5

< – – – – Here the professional surfer with a possible clothing malfunction. You think that surfing is all about catching waves? No sir, getting in and out of surf gear can be a testing enterprise – but one that still catches a heavy manstyle. No gig fluster here. Although there may be a suggestion that he is appealing off-shot for some assistance with the apparel – all those babes watching back there, someone must know how to deal with this thing.

Back to it –

This ace may be choking himself but note the tidy fringe, not a hair unsettled – he’s spotted the perfect wave offshore and is either  stripping off the T to go, or putting on the T to go. Either way the look is intense. This dude is thinking ‘ Out there .. ! ‘

But there is pain here, a deep-seated core of hurt. Something only the raging sea can calm.

Symbolism is everything, the choking entanglement of a virginal white garment, the massive strength suggested by the shoulder-width and deep chest, the dainty finger hold, the dark-shadowed eyes and all this set off against a harsh sunlit wall. Surfers do not usually advocate themselves as great sufferers for their sport, but there is always one and he’s in the building. Right now!

Hold fast dude .. .. ..  stay cool, bro.

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Image 6

< – – – – Here’s the professional surfer who has seen it all. Done the drugs, the booze, the clubs – A full body shot would show that not only is this cat the Super Stud, but he has a lot of super studs. This guy is so perforated he leaks bodily fuids 24/7.

No superficial head damage here though, check the dead-eye, the insolent curl of the full lips. Who would snake him at the Bay? No freakin’ way yardbird. He’s got what Greg Noll used to have.

All those years of transitioning in the jungles of Java has turned what was a handsome young lad into a smouldering big event surfer. We do see some remnant sign of tragedy here though, an intrinsic yet flint-eyed inner look probably caused by that six wave hold-down at Shippies last year.

Hey, someone had to go out .. .. it was maxin’ filth slabs down the line.

This is a sponsor headshot on the eve of the Triple Crown in Hawaii last year. Sunset Beach. Thirty local feet out there right now, and that’s from the back of the wave bro. The Island has been trembling under the onslaught all night but we are way cool here. A little sunblock before the event would be cool too. Complexion counts.

Later we’ll jam it up on the big Island with some Da Huey cats, score some local action with the brothers. When we mix it up I’m just another makamaka in their eyes, we’ve all been tested over here man, bigtime.

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Image 7

< – – – –  Here the professional surfer decking out after the event. Standard jewellery can be passed up in this pro game, but a string of black hinu hinu stones from the sacred beaches of western shores of Niihau is a treasured prize. A little lipstick, a wet smudge of underarm hair. Three days in the same shirt  – this is the ‘ No Fear ‘ look of the fraternity of hard knuckled yank surfmasters.

Hey .. ..  and that’s not white make-up either bra bro, this guy is back in the tent and looking through a slit in the side at the thousands out there waiting on his presentation. Fifth time winner of The Eddie.

Hand me no shit stranger, I am bloodhot danger.

Man, how we had to stack all those comp prizes on top of each other back at the beach shack. I was born to this man, fluid to fluid. The sea is my nemesis and my nautilus, we ride to the death together.

A little off-the-cuff poetry there, understated, from my core.

This is the raw and unaldulterated look of an aggressive waterman, no compromise here, a man might have the trophy again but that don’t mean that they understand. Them being the punters outside the tent, they can wait .. freakin’ clasp.

Somebody get a that Billabong PA babe in here will ya, a guy could chip a nail getting these beads sorted.

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best read to this – no idea who’s playing the guitar ..