The Surfers Journal Volume 19 NO. 2 - Spring '10

Naked old men, the Ho Chi Minh trail, and California’s best bathymetry. Evan Slater drops a four-year UC San Diego education into 3,000 words, and comes to find that the best thing about going to school in La Jolla isn’t being on campus, but scampering down the Goat Trail just in time for a Canyon Set.

For whoever says dreams don’t come true, here’s the story of the rise of Bruce Raymond. Growing up a surfer on Sydney’s south side, he found himself on the North Shore for the first time in the winter of 1974-’75. Quickly rising through the ranks, he became a premier competitor on the IPS, and then chucked it all to dedicate himself to a fledgling surf industry. Looking out the backdoor of his Sydney spread, it’s hard argue against the decisions he’s made.

Are your hacks gargantuan? Your airs apparent? Our people will be in touch.

If surfing is going to be a “professional” sport, inevitably there’s bound to be a few sharks in the tank. Brad Melekian delves into the sordid story of surfing and agents. From Laird Hamilton and his camp to Kelly Slater and his, these days most of the world’s best surfers are having somebody else handle their business. Depending on who you ask, that’s a good thing.

featuring a handful of rarely seen points, reefs, ledges and bars all lightly attended.

A photo gathering featuring beaches we wish were standing on.

This past winter Steve Pezman sat down with Hap Jacobs to, as the title of the piece would indicate, shoot the bull. The two delved into everything from balsa to Velzy, from shaping boards for $75 apiece to messing with Dewey Weber’s fragile fishing mind. Jacobs’ impact on board building can’t be reiterated enough, but as you’ll be able to tell by the anecdotes Pez pulled out of him, it was hardly all about business.

“Surfers surf, painters paint. The best ones usually start young. Back in the early 1960s they called Roy Fowler “Young Roy” because he was the youngest surfer in the lineup…These days, Roy lives in a loft in lower Manhattan near Chinatown.”

As a regular-footed surfer, if you had a time machine the first place you might go is South Africa in 1972. Wide-open points, not more than a shack or two on the beach at J-Bay, and a hearty pack of Saffies to keep you company. Like anywhere, time’s changed the place, but James Cox happily gives us a look at the way it was.