Generally speaking, this magazine is driven by the lowest of motives: sloth, cowardice and greed.

We rip into fellow humans as if feeling of hurt don’t exist; we vent a righteous anger at activities we adore (jetskis) and, late last year, rushed a magazine into print that we couldn’t be fucked editing ourselves just so we could milk the teats of a barely lactating surf industry.

In this issue we’ve attempted to turn around the (accurate) perception of a magazine confused, hateful and hypocritical.

I’ll be frank. I’m tired, man, tired of being friendless, tired of dagger eyes thrown across crowded rooms at

Asher Pacey, looses the hounds during a magnigicent dawn session at a beach that would two weeks later host a low-level shark attack.

parties. Nathan Hedge, for instance, a friend to all within pro surfing and a pillar of the North Narrabeen community, spat venom at one of the magazine’s proprietors during a flight to Fiji. Considering both editors are great fans of the unorthodox goofyfooter, this was a painful slight. At one point, mid-flight fistifcuffs seemed likely, something rightly frowned upon in this era of airline terrorism. So, after the Tow Is Gay issue and having shelved our Anyone Who Rides a Big Wave Is An Old Cunt Desperately Hanging Onto the Last Vestiges Of A Pro Surfing Career issue, we present a magazine so filled with goodness, it’ll feel like you’ve stumbled upon the Hillsong newsletter.

In a nutshell, we present the inspiring story of a former pro surfer paralysed from the waist down yet still living a full and glorious life; a former contender with the best win-loss record against Kelly Slater climbing back into the big leagues after three years wandering in the desert; a surfer done wrong who’s paid his debt to society via a custodial sentence and is dedicating the remainder of his days to helping others; and, lastly, we offer a gift to you in the form of Jamie O’Brien’s new movie, Freakside. Forty bucks in-store (if it was available, which it ain’t), two bucks extra on Stab.

Finally, a footnote to the earlier anecdote regarding Nathan Hedge. Out of the blue he visited the editors while we were in a resort spa bath warming tired bones and offered a genuine apology. “It ‘sjust, y ‘know, we ‘re different,” he said sheepishly, even though it was our fundamental evil that had driven him mad.

To confirm the bond, the next morning a powerful paw fell on my co-editor’s shoulders on the dawn boat to Cloudbreak. For 15 minutes, strong fingers kneaded knots and sub-epidermal scar tissue in a fulfilling, yet totally above board, massage. Perhaps, even as long ago as May last year, Nathan could sense the Goodness Within.