Jan 11
Mr Jay Alders does not muck around with surfers' feet.
Their wounds suggest that they had both had their sternums ripped open by bare claw
This is the Hawaiian way. Mr Garcia obviously had something else on his mind when he grabbed the big board this day, however that has not stopped him from a wholesome attack on this baby wave.
Pamela has painted a reasonably heavy woman wearing a skivvy and string bikini bottom riding a yellow board on a blue wave. The woman is sans brassiere, unattractively so. She is also wearing lipstick, eye-liner and earrings. She is surfing. Somebody needs help here.
Ms Gilmore's face shows the strain of getting it back around and being a comp she probably hopes that the beerpigs in the judging tent aren't as sharp as they are paid to be.
Jim banks is a bit of a throwback, yet this manoeuvre is half way between Kanga, Rasta, and a plane crash.
An lucid examination of the social aspects of the Cronulla race riots of December 2005 ..
Rumour has it that ed and his pals were responsible for policing the line-up over there on that American island from time to time, a little discouragement here and little suggestion there, nobody quite welcome - pity they missed the Japanese surprise visit in 1941.
The ad also displaces the myth that surfers in the sixties all had long bleached hair, as the dudes in the pic are no doubt typical of the era and all have the look of Junior Executives ready for some hang-ten time.
Thank you indeed gus. The Pottz, as pictured, comes in the same catgory as The Archbold - in that he's possibly doing all this for the pic opportunity - it's not as if Hornbaker rolls up to your home break with his camera without being invited.
Shintao beer is what’s left of Carlsberg’s disappointing venture into the Chinese boozer market, and since then China has given the krauts the arse, grabbed the formulae, increased the flavour, increased the alcohol content, increased the bottle size, and decreased the price.
some of us surf, some of us paint - some should stick to photography
The kid has completely stuffed it, he's probably paddled out into the middle of a local comp that he wasn't invited to and decided to chuck a few heavy swathes.
Then came the five page contracts, printed small, and usually tabled in some darkened nightclub. Later came the introductions to some older men. The owners. The fixers.
The predators.
These lads are known to meet from time to time around one of the tables of the Great Northern in Byron Bay with their part Filipina grandchildren squabbling around underfoot, and they mutter and grumble over their drinks about typhoons and squalls, and Catholic wives.
Look at how it's all wrong here - Occy has grabbed the rail, he's buried his arse and he's dipped his hand. He's also not looking where he's going and the next move is almost impossible to predict.
petebowes.com 