“I could not believe I was going on a surf trip with Occy. I was just a stoked grommet in the backseat absolutely losing my mind. That was my make or break, really. It pretty much kickstarted my career,” says Margo, staring out over the red dirt, reflecting on the origins of his two-part freesurfing career. Margo would end up starring in all three of Jack McCoy’s iconic Billabong films Green Iguana, Bunyip Dreaming and Sik Joy, alongside the likes of Occy, Munga Barry, Sunny Garcia and Luke Egan, becoming surfing’s first pro freesurfer on decent coin. Twice he was voted ‘best freesurfer in the world’ by the top 44 (via Australian Surfing Life), and in 1996 he won the Nias Pro as a dark horse who had no business schooling his competitive comrades in a jersey. Margo’s first act with Bong lasted well over a decade, and culminated in several generational movie parts. But when the sponsorship money dried up, the reality of needing to work a normie job hit like a ton of bricks. Soon after his marriage crumbled, and between paid surf careers, he spent the better part of seven years working as a baggage handler for Qantas. For a man who'd made his living travelling the world with a surfboard under his arm, the irony of loading everyone else's quivers onto planes probably wasn’t lost on him. His second act feels serendipitous. In 2023, filmmaker Dan Scott caught Margo scribbling cursive all over the Superbank after knocking off from work. Matt Parker, who Dan was doing some work for, ended up shaping him some boards. Scott did his thing, pairing Margo’s flawless form with toe-tapping soundtrack, and, right on queue, the over 40’s audience almost tore a thenar muscle smashing the like button. A partnership emerged: Album and Margo, which has held firm ever since. Soon enough, Gage Roads and Katin came knocking, and Margo found himself in the unlikely position of launching a second freesurfing career, some three decades after his first. In 2024, Margo told Stab: “I think there’s a market for 45 to 55-year-olds and I fit right in the middle of that, catering for the older gentleman who’s pretty committed but can’t really relate to aerial surfing or whatever. It seems to be working for me at the moment, but whether it lasts another week, or a year, or more, who knows? I’ll take it!” Two years later, he's still taking it. And in Jacob Willcox’s latest clip, Margo returns to the same red dirt that first introduced him to surfing’s collective consciousness, this time with a quiver of Albums hiding the Landcruiser canopy. Jacob’s words from the trip, below.

Jacob Willcox Drags Margo Back To The Red Dirt

Green Iguana 2.0.

elsewhere // Oct 12, 2026

Words by Jacob Willcox

Reading Time: 6 minutes

Growing up, my Dad had one set of surf movies at home: the Jack McCoy box series.

Those were the films that shaped my early childhood and how I view surfing — Jack’s trippy editing fuelled by some god-given natural substance planted a seed of creativity in me and a lifelong love of surf films.

One scene burnt into my memory was from Margo’s cameo in Green Iguana. He was 19, surfing with Occy thanks to Munga (Barry) blowing out his knee, at a place I instantly recognised. My young brain had just completed its first “Spot Snipe”. They were in W.A. I knew that camp site. I knew that drive. It’s where I got my first tube, had my first job collecting bins and lighting fires with my old man.

I knew exactly where they were and what they were up to.

Fast forward 20 years later, I was sitting on the deck of a boat in Fiji with my uncle. He suggested I should do a trip with Margo back up there. He wanted to rally a crew of mates, all die hard Margo fans, to help make it happen. I ran with the idea and didn’t have to look far to get it off the ground. I called my good mate (and sponsor) Aaron – the original brewer, core surf lord and boss of Gage Roads Brewing. He was backing it.

A couple of days later, I rang Margo. Coincidentally, the same day the trip got the green light was also my birthday. We spent the first few minutes talking about getting older.

“You haven’t hit your prime yet,” he gassed. “Mine was between thirty and thirty five.”

I laughed. “I still feel like I’m eighteen.”

“Mate,” he said, “I still feel thirty.”

We both cracked up. Then I told him. “The trip’s happening.”

20th of June.

I’d just jumped off a sailboat halfway up the WA coast. Margo had flown over, grabbed my Cruiser from Perth and driven north with Aaron to scoop me. I enjoy long drives. There’s nowhere to hide. No reception, no phones and the never-ending straight road has a way of putting you into a highway hypnosis.

I’m a curious cunt, and Margo has some of the best stories going. He’d tell one unbelievable story before immediately following it with another that was somehow even better. Every now and then he’d stop himself.

“Nah… that one can never be re-told.”

I assured him the car was now a steel confession box. We spoke about his relationship with competing and freesurfing back in the day. A relationship I have been investing in this year.

Margo’s a competitor, mostly with himself, always chasing the best version of what he can do. He told me about the tail end of his competitive years, getting sat on by three Brazilians in two-foot surf with no priority rule to save him — the type of situation that’s made plenty of Aussies throw in the towel over the years.

These days his competitiveness begins and ends with bird watching. The whole drive north he’d call out bird species, rarity, the lot. He was given a bird book as a kid when travelling around Australia with his family and it stuck. His goal now is a top-1000 world ranking for bird spotting and he plays it dead straight. If he doesn’t get a clean look it doesn’t count. No maybes. Which sums up his character – A genuine honest bloke.

Eventually the bitumen disappeared and we hit the corrugated track. My old landcruiser loaded to the brim. 140 litres of fuel, 80 litres of water, nine boards and 25 cartons of beer to act like Father Christmas once we arrived at the campsite.

My tyres dropped to 20 psi to soften the corrugations and the rattle on your Jaw. “Bang!” The suspension had started to clap out. Not bad enough to turn back but bad enough that the rest of the drive to camp came with the odd sound of a shotgun going off under the foot.

Ah well.

The first few days were small. We had a tinny, and Margo hadn’t been fishing in fifteen years. Our first mission out we lost one Spanish mackerel to a shark and threw back another for being undersized. I could see the hunger building in Margs, a hunting instinct waking back up.

To rub salt in the wounds, two Israelis rolled back into the beach after us carrying a horse Mackie like they’d won the Olympics. Margs and I looked at each other with our bruised ego’s and nodded. “Fuckwits.”

Next day we went looking for a corner to ourselves. Aaron had a few spots up his sleeve. All three of us don’t enjoy surfing with people. The day we went fishing Aaron went hunting waves by himself. He had three surfs, headbutted the reef and scored some tubes. He wanted to take us back there to try score it with him. After an hour and half drive north through the pin stripe bushes and brain rattling track we got a first peak of the wave.

A crystal blue peak.

The next few hours I saw the lads in flow as time disappeared trading waves. Margo turned back the clock standing upright in blue shacks, Az got his redemption tubes and I was in awe watching the old VHS tapes come back to life.

There was a solid storm front about to march up the west coast which was hopefully going to deliver surf. We had time for one more fishing mission so we were up at sparrows fart to make it happen.

We had barely got out around the bombie when Margs yells “ Fish ON!!”He had been thinking about this moment for days and so had I. Margs was like a raptor in flight – no wasted movement, just pure mongrel.

He gets it up beside the boat and lets out a roar – “ A long tail tuna!! Yahhooooo”

We pull her back into the beach and got Margo to parade it around the camp (just kidding). But we made some top-notch Sashimi as we bunkered down for the storm.

It pissed down most of the night but we woke up to swell that was solid enough to find the reef but wobbly and far from clean. On the west coast this time of year the pattern’s predictable. Offshore southeast in the morning, swinging more south as the land heats up, then howling onshore southwest by the arvo. I figured today would run the same playbook. Leftover cloud from the storm brought the odd rain squall through. Four hours into the session the swell was fading and the wind was about to ruin it completely. 50 people out and I still hadn’t scored one. The wind started to feather in and people started peeling off. A squall further up the point rolled through and the onshore hit. I thought that was it. Then it passed, and the wind swung back strong offshore. Kind of a miracle.

You spend enough time out at a wave and you build a connection with it. Some days it wants to hurt you and other days it looks after you. This day it was my friend. I found two fun ones in the next hour before the wind properly turned. After a seven hour session I was glad to see the wind come howling in and get the chance to rehydrate with nectar of the gods.

The next morning Margo was hobbling around with a sore knee from so many backside belts. My eyes were leaking from 7 hours of ocean glare. We couldn’t give 2 shits. We kinda scored

We packed up camp said goodbye to everyone and headed back south. We stopped into the Barry for a counter meal on the way back. Margo told me about the last time he was there on the same trip when he was 19. The locals were running a boardriders event and if they wanted to surf out there they needed to wear a rashie and compete…

Occy ended up winning the comp and the prize pool – A massive bag of pot haha…

As Margo and I parted ways at the airport we hugged goodbye.

To take one of my favourite surfers and one of the best humans back to the place he considers the first real chapter of his surfing career felt like winning. At the same time, it gave me the chance to nurture the seed that Jack McCoy planted in my own young mind all those years ago.

Rest in Peace Jack. I Hope you enjoyed the edit.

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