Issue 83 – Q4 2015
Welcome to the latest release of Egomaniacs Gone Wild, or Stab Magazine, as it’s otherwise known. This issue’s all about honesty. Yes, we’re cutting the bull and letting the truth soar! Pro surfers, you see, aren’t so unlike you and I. Did you know that they get nervous before their first wave of a trip? That their blood pressure rises, just like yours, at the presence of crowds? Well, they totally do, but, it’s only in the most intimate of settings that they talk freely. You see, the issue in the surf media game isn’t access. We got these gents (and gals) on speed dial. “Kell, that you?”
If you were to cover, say, tennis, you’d be lucky to be granted a half-hour with Rafael Nadal. And if you were, it’d be as tightly monitored as Guantanamo. We, on the other hand, just spent seven days perched next to Dane Reynolds in a tub in the Ments, hanging off his every syllable. Did you know that Mr Reynolds is one of the world’s foremost consumers of surf media? He’s watched, read, seen and surfed everything, and that’s why they call him the all-seeing eye! On our trip, Dane finally divulged all the details of his brief sabbatical from the surf world, and it all started with an almighty panic attack at Lower Trestles!
Can you handle more of the truth? How about how it feels to watch your pro surfer dreams wilt and die, and to be forced into working in a dirty hole full of dirty men in the middle of the West Australian desert? Or how Ryan Burch, the great maestro of the ‘alternative’ surf movement used to be so ashamed of his logging habit that he used to drive home from the mandatory thrustering contest, get his log, go surf, and then drop it home before returning for his next heat to avoid being seen with his elongated craft? And, if you flip reverse this hefty beast, you’ll see the youthful countenance of Mr Curren Caples. Want to know a secret? The kid just wants to surf! Skating’s just his job, a means to fund his insatiable petrol habit.
In exchange for the much cherished honesty of our pro surfer protagonists in these pages, here’s my slice of the truth, an all out confession to a heinous crime that simply must out. Two months ago, in the morning flurry, I placed my complementary Stab-supplied laptop on the top of the my inexpensive Japanese made car in order to fondle my keys, have a final sip of my coffee, send a text, check my emails etc…and then took off. Upon rounding the first bend, a black shape slid through my peripherals. After a delayed reaction, I realised what it was. I pulled over in the middle of the road and jumped out, waving both arms, like a crazy person. My laptop was sitting in the middle of the road and the car approaching was a BMW. My frantic waving had the adverse effect to what I was intending. Instead of stopping, the BMW pulled out onto the other side of the road in order to pass me (the raving loon flapping his wings). In doing so, he aligned his wheels perfectly with my silver machine. If he’d carried on straight it would’ve gone under the wheels. The noise was exactly what you’d expect, and head-in-hands I watched another car approach, also a BMW. I again began my wave, a little less enthusiastically this time. The BMW did the exact same thing as the one before, and again both wheels ploughed straight over my poor Mac. CRUNCH. The computer, was, is, completely fucked. I haven’t told anyone of the fate of my work machine, and instead this whole magazine has been made on my mac from home. Four years old, crashes every time I open photoshop. The moral of the story? BMW drivers are total pricks, and I shouldn’t be trusted with anything, let alone the running of a magazine. But I have and I am, and away we go. It may be tattered, erratic, sexually confused and confidently self-loathing, but I promise you this, it won’t be beige. Beige truly is the worst colour.
Words by Alistair Klinkenberg