Roasted: Harry Bryant On The Edge Of A Typhoon In The East China Sea

As told by Harry Bryant, written by Taylor Damron.

You might recognize the first wave. Maybe even the second. But the third?

You’d need Dav and his purple suitcase for that.

True exploration involves rolling the dice. You must be prepared for the possibility of failure, for effort and sacrifice to bring no reward. Lucky for Harry, his dear friend and filmer of the past ten years, Dav Fox, has a strong penchant for meteorology and enjoys spending his afternoons scouring Google Earth.

Lucky for Dav, Haz has a drive to surf the wave less traveled and a willingness to put the work in to get there. It makes for a strong partnership and their time together has proven chaotic and fruitful in equal parts (see: Motel Hell for evidence, which won Best Surf film of 2024).

This particular adventure involves a typhoon, a riverbank, and the Far East. 

Dav’s had his eye on East Asia for some time now and the region has seen a particularly active typhoon season. These storms move quickly and give short, tight windows of opportunity. In comes the storm he’s been searching for, riding the thin line necessary to make the intended mission a reality. Serendipity puts Harry at home, and available, for the first time in months. When Dav rings, the hair on the back of Haz’s neck sticks up.

The following days are a mayhem of measured odds and the scraping of obscure weather forecasting sites. I picture Dav in a white lab coat, holding a long wooden pointer, standing in front of a white board while he explains the various factors that need to align for the wave to work.

Haz, the diligent pupil takes notes and scratches his head. 

‘Now Harry, there is another variable.’ 

‘What’s that Dav?’

‘It’s the riverbank. We need enough rain for the bank to burst open and flush the sand out of the rivermouth and into the ocean. At the same time, the typhoon’s got to be close enough to shore to bring the rain and swell, but not too close to put the wind on it and blow the surf out.’ 

Harry nods.

It’s a bit like shooting an arrow through the head of a pin… And the wave hasn’t broken in six years. 

They left the next morning. They will only be there 48 hours. 

Airplanes are little cocoons where time stands still. Rows of seats and ovular windows over blue skies and floating clouds. The language in the pamphlet and from the loudspeaker is subject to change but the environment is familiar the world over. A ride in a sterile nationless container 32,000 feet in the air between one destination and another. A few hours, and in this case a few flights later, the wheels touch down and here they are. In a completely new world. 

It’s 4am. A chopped blonde bob weaves through a sea of dark hair, carrying a sack of surfboards out of the airport and into a taxi. He’s followed by a large scruffy and slightly graying man dragging a purple suitcase. This is not a place that gets many visitors. 

They sleep for two hours until they are awakened by rumbling stomachs. Live fish and crustaceans ogle them from tanks in the open market. They look at menus almost indecipherable even with translation apps and it’s difficult to figure out what to eat. Opting for point and pick street food, they choose fresh eel and duck bursting with flavors they’ve never encountered before. Later review of their finances reveals that their meals cost an equivalent of 60 cents. The post session beer? A whopping 3. 

The village is rural, but they’re finding that the country is modern and tech forward. Tap and pay is the preferred payment method and taxis are called through an equivalent of uber. They encounter a pink Mercedes convertible with both water and land capabilities. As strange as our travelers are to a place like this, there is no staring. They are regarded with a shy and quiet respect. The jungle, the storm, and the people combine to a palpable spiritual stillness. Tiny, wrinkled old ladies push jingling carts as Harry and Dav do their utmost to accomplish the impossible task of blending in. 

They have no guide and no one speaks much, if any, English. They do not know a single soul for thousands of miles. After weeks of scouring digital maps and satellite images, here they are in the thick of it and there are no signposts. The air is dense with heat and moisture and sweat drips as they wander a maze of bricked alleyways; Harry with three boards and Dav with an armful of camera equipment. They find the river, then the breakwall, but can’t seem to find their way down to the beach. They’re still not even sure it’s breaking. 

Sometimes all it takes is a bit of luck.

They round a corner and run smack into a pack of local surfers. Six of them. One of them recognizes Harry and his famous blonde mop, darting up to give him a hug. Minds are mutually blown but each for entirely different reasons. There can be only one explanation for the presence of these foreigners. With a broad smile, the little lad gleefully guides them beneath a chain linked fence, over barbed wire, and straight into synchronicity’s waiting arms. With Dav as his guide, Harry threads his way through the head of the pin to a reeling mirage of a right hander. 

The wave is a dream. It’s not scary, cold or crowded, but warm, a bit over head high, and throwing thin lipped lined up barrels that open for long deep railed carves. Harry’s surfing is adaptive, powerful but without imposing his will. He lets the wave lead, drawing masterfully timed, creative lines that bring him speed, speed, and more speed. And he does it all on his most magical board.

A previously retired 7’1″ yellow and orange Josh Keogh that splashes the cover of issue 33.1 of The Surfer’s Journal. The image is of a high speed, dug in, down carve on an open faced Moroccan right. The two waves share similarities and the decision to ride this magical stick here is no coincidence. He read the signs, felt its tug and called the board out of retirement. I’m glad he did and you will be too. 

Sometimes things just line up. The perfect storm spins in the East Asian Sea and a pair of explorers set out into the unknown in pursuit of little more than a hunch. They arrive and find not a drop of water out of place. There’s harmony floating in the air and it’s there to be heard if only you listen. In this case, it’s a bit of Afroman, some violin and the twang of a chinese harp. 

Synchronicity, serendipity, luck, call it what you like. Harry calls it Roasted for what happened to his skin in each of the few sessions that make up his newest release.