It’s been a cunt of a month, if you’ll excuse my schoolboy French. As missiles whistled over the heads of our Lebanese and Israeli bros, as the shockwaves of explosions collapsed the lungs of children beneath the rubble in Qana, as muslims from Londonistan to Denpasar lit the fuses on their suicide belts, Stab got to thinking: what can we do to reassure our readers that soft and fuzzy good times still exist out there? That, despite the imminent annihilation of the west, life is still as blue as the ocean and as green as a verdant meadow.

Our answer is always the same. Hire a chopper! Grab an A-team! Book flights to the tropics! In the case of this issue, we commissioned servants to cart boards and provisions to Lombok while our crew of AI, Cansdell and Rasta flew to the island in comfort from Bali. Session complete, and shot from water, land and air, servants gathered and packed boards and drove the 24 hours back home while the Air Bali bird soared

overhead. While the resulting images, from Bali and Lombok, are tube focussed and not the usual grab-bag of airs that normally light our internal fuses, the waves and surfi ng are so good it’ll restore your faith

Andy Irons uses his JS 6'2" to ward off the terrible wind caused by the Air Bali Bell Jet Ranger that had earlier followed his every gyration and tube squat on Lombok.

in our indulgent/sinful western lifestyles.

Also in Indonesia, and in this magazine, are the darling Florences, that family of surf dogs that includes the world’s best 14-year-old, John John. His bros, Nathan and Ivan, are handy on the sleds too – even mum Alex knows how to cut a rug. Again, decadent westerners at play. But these aren’t dumb Americans. While moored in the stilly calm of various bays in West Sumatra, out came the school books and the lanuage tapes, the kids reciting hunks of the Koran in perfect Arabic and the Talmud in unblemished Hebrew. The West? Insular? Ha!

To wrap the magazine, our reporter Fred Pawle spent time with Chris Davidson, a man who once held the world in the palm of his hand. These days he’s kicking cans and scratching for one last shot at a pro surfing career. The story refl ects the dangers of being a child star and the difficulties of re-igniting a career once your star has fallen, no matter how good you surf. Fortunately, Davo has a new woman in his life. And she’s a real holy roller. Whether or not Davo now makes it is entirely his responsibility.

It really is a beautiful world, and as Hizbollah leader Hassan Nassrallah is fond of saying, you just gotta know how to fi nd the rainbows amid the clouds of bomb dust.