Tow surfing is gayer than inline skating. It is gayer than wakeboarding. Gayer even than Climate Change.

I may be a lot of things, but what I am above all is a gay caballero of the surf. Equal parts laziness and cowardice mixed with minimal skill. And what a gay cab adores is the kiss of speed from a jetski. Scared of big waves? Can’t generate enough momentum to clear a lip? Hate paddling? These are issues that do not affect the gay caballero.

But maybe someone can answer this, cause I must’ve blinked or been overseas: when did the entire sport of surfing turn into a homo-tow rainbow? In just one surf magazine I counted 40 pages of tow shots (including the cover and ads), a fruity conga line of awkward-looking men in life vests and B-grade surfers getting higher than Dane or Andy. To use a skate analogy, it’s like rollerbladers have suddenly taken over the skate mags – strapped no-talents screeching…weeeeee!…I’m getting higher than you…weeeeeee!… I never lose my equipment… weeeeeeee! Tow surfing is gayer than inline skating. It is gayer than wakeboarding. Gayer even than Climate Change.

Stab thought it would be a gut-buster if we took the hardest man in surfing (Koby Abberton) to the desert coast (hardest/most paranoid locals/full of Great Whites) and towed him into an eight-foot bomb for a covershot on a six-foot twin-fin foamie while wearing a g-string, cowboy hat, superb elbowlength gloves and clutching in each hand, a fire-red plastic pistol. Below, the coverline reading, TOW IS, LIKE, SO GAY: why being strapped-in is the new inline skating. Naturally, chaos ensued. And the 30-hour drive from Sydney to the desert  was a Priscilla in the Desert jaunt (see the story, Butch and the Gay Caballeros on page 60). Unfortunately, at the moment of truth, as Koby squared into the barrel on his El Nino, the photography team of Respondek/Blakey fled to the safety of deep water on their ski and missed the money shot. Now, this is irony in itself. We’re shooting a TOW IS GAY cover and one tow-team is fleeing like a pantless George Michael from the paparazzi.

Two weeks later, another swell rolled into the same bay and we went back (with photographer Stuart Gibson) for another taste (see the cover).

In this issue, we also present our Stab awards for 2006, including Richie Lovett’s award for Best Gag Gone Wrong. Has karma got clear cell carcinoma in its arsenal?

Heavens, first terrorists, now the threat of cancer for misbehaviour. Read this magazine while you can.