Surfing ain’t long-hairs and doobie-suckers no more. Surfing is suited-and-booted stockbrokers. It’s university students who’ve smelt the roses and don’t swallow the evening news. It’s just-18-year-olds whose trunks end above the knee. Surfing is beavertails and logs and empowered women who ain’t adverse to a Brazilian cut, but it’s also 540s and double oops. Right now, surfing is goddamn hot and, most of all, inspired.
And Stab is inspired by it.
By the progression.
Stab celebrates the champagne end of the spectrum. Got a 720 in your sights? You’re our man. We’ll even gift you cash to make it happen. Trading up flat-spins for their inverted cousin? Take page one. Whether it’s hiring a chopper and shooting Taj Burrow from the Angle of God (issue one), or throwing a blindfolded Bruce Irons over the ledge at Chopes (issue 56), Stab‘s driven by the search for an answer to the question: How sumptuous can surfing be?
By the sexiness.
Women’s surfing isn’t what it was and, in recent years, we’ve grown fond of portraying exquisite surfer gals as seen through our lonesome eyes. Water droplets on Mon Eleogram’s stunning V’s. Sage Erickson lounging in a Hawaiian crib. Sal Fitz, shining brighter than the sun in a pool of salt water. Stab feels that women’s surfing, electric and aggressive as it’s ever been, is also sexier than it’s ever been.
By the intelligence.
Spicoli is dead; Taj Burrow’s vocab is swollen. Kelly Slater is an entrepreneur. Julian Wilson isn’t scared of collared shirting. Sophistication’s on the come-up, especially among the pups. Just ask Kolohe Andino, who you certainly won’t find saying “It was a good heat,” no matter how dazzling the last 30 mins of his life were. Stab loves this flavour of professional surfing and it forms the basis of everything we stand for.
Ok, ok, but, in short, what’s this whole show about?
Big ideas and the endeavour to execute ‘em. Sometimes they don’t come off, but it’s better than wondering. Stab may be put together by a bunch of narcissistic and morally corrupt humans, but goddamn it, if we ain’t the most obsessive collective you ever did see…
…while you were sleeping, our eyes stayed open.