Johnny Get Your Gun!

Morning LVRS,

The rain falls in sheets here in Los Angeles, as a few brave souls desperate for a pre-work hour in the drink enjoy some very dirty water. With rare inclement conditions, rush hour traffic’s ground to a screeching halt, drivers here in sunny Southern California so delicate, so soft, that the very hint of Weather sets their brakes a-screechin’, as shop owners stand idly in their storefront windows, staring at the sky as if it were falling…

While Stab prides itself in offering regular escape from the daily trials and tribulations of Adult Life, Surfing ain’t an Island…

From sexual harassment and issues of gender equality, to gun control, concerns around the Issues of our time have touched every corner of popular culture. While we’d be failing to do our jobs not reporting on the subjects—”staying in our lane,” as some of our less-patient readers like to say—we acknowledge this ain’t necessarily the space for moralizing or evangelizing or politicking, we’ll always pick our battles…  

As Papa said, there are many who do not know they are fascists but will find it out when the time comes, and there is one subject about which I’ve become increasingly, stubbornly, evangelistic: Any self-respecting surfer should own a fucking Gun. 

In every surfer’s home, hanging from their wall like a Fox Sterlingworth, should be a proper weapon that scares the shit out of them, taunts them from across the room: you wouldn’t.

There’s little as frustrating as standing watching perfect, near-maxed conditions, while friends complain of not having a big enough board, their racks too stuffed with daily driver butter knives, switchblades for summer grovels, to fit one capable of chasing down anything taller than their own, trembling domes…

Now of course not everyone has any desire to clamor around the rocks below just beyond the Half Moon Bay Harbor, or dance across Peahi’s moving boulders for a crack at a fifty-footer. But every self-respecting surfer should have a weapon in their arsenal that’ll allow them to hunt the biggest game they’d dare chase down.

I don’t care if that simply means Johnny Sixpack finally adding a chunkier 6’4” to his rack of Thrusters, for that trip to Nica; Lowers Larry grabbing a Mayhem Retro Ripper or Double-Up, or a Hamish Graham channel-bottom ode to Alan Byrne; or Hipster Harry finally ponying up on that Brewer/Chapman single-fin, Parmenter Widowmaker, or Brian Bulkley tube shooter; or those hearty amongst The Core finally pulling the trigger on a Christenson, Stretch, SOS, or PUKAS…

Don’t turn and run, Johnny get your gun!

Happiness is a warm gun. Greg Long, Nazare.

Photography

Aitor Molina

This week, we found out part-time gimp Kelly Slater will be sitting out Bells, and possibly the first-half of the ‘CT season, though he looked pretty good on that new board at Haleiwa a while back. Jordy Smith walked away from a not-insignificant paycheck to expand his foam and fiberglass horizons, while Brendan Buckley (aka @BigDickPowerSurfer) felt Jordy just needed a few more Red Bulls to claim the World Title most everyone’s agreed he’s been ready for, forever…

While Mikey C. and Shane Beschen turned their judgmental gazes towards the judges’ tower, as Albee Layer—always a proponent of culling 10-point rides for anything but true Perfection—showed us what failure looks like, spectacularly. 

We rolled out the full-length look into Australia’s favorite World Tour overachiever, Kai Otton; West Oz’s most-lovable little mad man, Kael Walsh, stole fa few minutes of your sweet time with a haymaker of a clip; while Ben Gulliver offered some cold fourplay, teasing us into throwing down for his hearty, heart-filled “The Seawolf.” 

While Los Angeles is wet-to-the-bone, soggy, slow and grey, in less than a week Bells is underway, and our Australian staffers are head-down, wrapping up some projects filmed on the Goldie, while making preparations for Torquay. Hope you’ve been getting a wiggle in, ya wankers. 

Keep it cutty, with a little class, Stab. 

Lashes McGroggans

Editor In Chief