breakfasts

breakfasts_cave

Autumn has been greeting Ericeira with hectic waves – which means I’ve been surfing loads. These past couple of weeks, the swell remained consistent (obviously with ups and downs) and spots that only work a few handy days of the year are dumping hauntingly beautiful kegs. I’ve been lucky enough to embrace three-hour long journeys of boogieboard and, on occasions, to simply gaze some of the most hauntingly beautiful waves I’ve ever seen. The latter is lingering the most on my mind.

I’m not going to lay down all the details of what’s been going on. Let’s just say I’ve attended good sessions; okay sessions; and others where I actually went way, WAY out of my own limits. And then there were the days in which I opted to stay put and flow with the Ocean’s pacing time. That’s what happened in the previous couple of days as I breakfasted next to a friend in a semi-deserted, dusty field pointing straight to one of the most mind-bending waves in Portugal’s coastline: The Cave.

The surfing world has heard a whole lot about The Cave last week, basically because Kelly Slater went surfing it. But that’s another story. This Western Portuguese slab, discovered by boogers several years ago, is a thick, shallow right that bends on top of a sharp, rocky shelve and batters below sea-level. One of two things can happen if you are caught by its chunky lip: either you are incredibly lucky and nothing more than a heavy whirl goes on; or you go straight to the rocks and get seriously injured. That happened to guys like John John Florence in 2012 and that’s the reason only a handful of Portuguese surfers risk to drop it. On the other hand, bodyboarders split the peak most of its pumping days. Not me though. I can only mind surf it.

The view of Cave’s grotto from the cliff is indescribable. The waves roll over like on a replay motion; bubbles arise from submerged rocks and draw mutant steps on the wave’s wall; and the sound…the sound is deep, dense. It’s all dazzlingly scary, a mesmerising scenario. For every single wave, I’m always awed. And the better of all: it’s right next my home! So me and a mate came up with a new routine for our whole gang to sip up the most out of this precious piece of Atlantic: dawning with coffee and cookies while peeking this raw, natural composition.

I like to be awed, every single day. I’m surely not the only one. At least my boogie buddies dig it too, that’s why we rise with the Sun and squander miles around Ericeira looking for bowls every week. If we can’t find them goodies, then nothing is lost. The nature takes care of things and we all get to renovate our spirits. As for myself, scoring a deep barrel or beaming a monstrous, empty slab has the same effect: both stick around my memory through times.

mouvement by yoshi omory

mouvement_yoshi_omory

photography by Yoshi Omori | book: Mouvement 1984-92

Yoshi Omori is no longer interested in hip-hop. Between the years 1986 and 1989, the Japanese photographer spent his years capturing the birth and rise of France’s hip-hop scene, blending with the crowds in nightclubs like Le Globo and Le Bataclan. It was a golden age for the genre in Paris, with all its rappers, breakdancers, graffiters. But as years went by, Omori stepped aside from the scene. He says it just got to politicised and violent and that’s something unappealing to his guts.

Two decades later, the photographer teamed up with journalist Marc Boudet and artist Jayone to compile Mouvement 1984-92, aphotobook evoking the years of expansion in French hip-hop through its parties, artists and crowds.

Yoshi Omori spoke with Julien Morel for VICE about those groovy years in the Parisin 19th arrondissement and the release of the 150-photographs collection, now reedited by LO/A Edition.

thomas ‘killer’ robinson ‘days’

Thomas Robinson is pure and simply today’s most fluid and stylish bodyboarder out there. This is an inspiration at times when the swell is stormy giant and unrideable in Ericeira and when work piles on with the end of the year in sight.

sumatrium

Krui, on the Southwest side of Sumatra, Indonesia, is swarmed with secret waves. That line of coast is so unreported that on can’t even find straight knowledge about it online. A basic search on Google shows nothing on Wikipedia and there’s only a few entries on surf schools operating in the main areas of the region. Nothing on mind-bending waves.

So when the world bodyboarding champion Ben Player first heard about Krui through his fellows, he got mixed feelings. They all dissed the place and never went back to the region. They never actually caught those secret spots pumping classic waves.

The only way for Benny to prove their stories was to actually visit the region, which became possible through an unexpected phone call from Riptide. The Australian magazine dropped him a ticket to go on a 10-days trip to Krui with cinematographers Ed Saltau and Dean Fergus and photographer Rod Owens with the mission of bringing back a story on that crystal water paradise. The search was on and Benny didn’t look back on the chance.

The first few days in Krui were disappointing. No surfing nor material nor a story to bring back home. But when he was about to call it a trip, Ben Player saw the untruth of the stories he was told about unfurling in front of his eyes. The winds shifted, the waves got smoother, the swell came about and the sessions were as epic as ever.

Sumatrium is the story he came back with: a short-documentary unravelling Krui’s secrets and the visual proof of what Benny sums as “the most successful surf adventure I have ever done”.

Sumatrium is available online at benplayer.com.

Source: Riptide

expected oblivions

A couple of weeks ago, the days of greenish, clean swells and light off-shore breezes in Ericeira gave way to the Northern winds that screw up pretty much every spot in town. Instead of rolling through the village’s roads with my neck hanging outside of the car window checking every slab, every peek with the excitement already vibrating on my bones and the expectation of peering a roundish, hollow lefty (yeah, I can only grab lefts) breaking somewhere in this 10 mile coastal line of oh-so-fucking-rad-barrels, I got nothing. The waves were deterring. But when one feels that trembling need to have an hour of total oblivion from the outside world, any foamy, wrecked spot works wonders.

So as the Sun was cutting the clouds with its fading lightning strokes, me and a mate went straight to Pedra Branca, a slab that rolls through a wide rock and produces some of the most dreadful and cavernous lefties in Ericeira. It wasn’t the case, though. It was pretty much shit. Indeed, we were in the mood to set ourselves into the water and just leave its bouncy, baffling waggles swoosh away our daily stressing thoughts.

We went inside. Right then caught ourselves in the middle of a long set. Went under. Came up. One, two, three arms’ pushes. Breathe in, breathe out, deep inhale. Duck dive. Get sucked to the bottom. Struggle all the way up. Deep breath. The repeating batter endured for, oh, I don’t know, ten minutes that looked like an hour. Only then, as we reached the X spot for the next incoming, the music stopped. And we stood silently, eye-to-eye with the Ocean, with the horizon, waiting for the next serie.

Those minutes, those cracks in time between sets make me lose myself in that precise moment. Sounds like a cliché, however I’ve lately been finding myself in these resting periods reflecting exactly about that precise instant. The surrounding water, the beads escaping my hands, the salty scent, the groans, the pounding of waves on the sand. It all just seems so easy then and I get a dismaying feeling. I tell myself I’m afraid of going out of the water. Exactly, afraid. Because everything there, at the sea, is so soothing and yet energetic, and unexpected, and different at every second, that I can only grasp that private telepathic chat with the Ocean so to wash away all my inner unsettlements. I dive in those moments to reestablish a balance within. I’m no poet. So for such complex element, simple words suit perfectly.

On the other hand, there’s bodyboarding’s own surprising factor, which is my main reason to flow with the sea. We went inside expecting nothing, our minds on a deep seated mode that we weren’t going to get all huffy if the session was a fiasco. Well, it wasn’t. Take it like this: many are the times when we see perfect waves ashore right on our backyards and gleam with the prospect of get pumping, classic waves. Although, many are also the times when we leave the water disgruntled, because our expectations weren’t attended. On this day, it was quite the opposite and that is the most astonishing of the feelings.

We grabbed what we thought were ignoble waves, slabs on the verge to collapse on us that would actually spread along the rocks while shaping playful lips. It turned out to be a blissful Autumn afternoon, with no one else around and plenty of natural distractions. Mind switched off, the senses all hyped up. Nothing compares to a lonesome boogie session with some of my boys, even if the waves are bunk. At least for me. Better yet if these turn out to be bunk from the outside and merrily fun on the inside. This is the best of both worlds: inner peace and lively adrenaline.

never catch me. no.

The wind shaking the trees; the sea pounding the sands in the distance; the sky twisting itself in its grey, infuriated mood. It was then a bliss waking up to this playful death depiction.