JULY ISSUE PREVIEW

ALMOST NOT FAMOUS THE SURFER PROFILE WITH BOBBY MARTINEZ by Brad Melekian " I made Bobby Martinez laugh. It wasn't that hard, and I didn't feel like I was being particularly clever. It went like this: Bobby Martinez and I are driving down the street. Not because we're friends, but because I'm here to interview him. We're not in a dropped Mercedes. We're not in a six-four Impala. We're in a Detroit-stock Ford F-150 with two dogs in the bed. A Rotty named Oso. A black Lab named Rio. Both of their tags carry the last name Martinez. The Ford is his, not mine. The windows are rolled down. It's gray outside. Bobby is drinking coffee.     I turn to Bobby and say, "You know, every time anybody writes anything about you, they write about you being a cholo, or a gangster, or coming from the hood. They always write about driving around with you on your turf."     I'm nervous saying it. Maybe it's inappropriate. But then he's laughing. And pretty hard.     "Yeah, man, I trip out on that. I don't get it. I mean, look at this place."     We're in Santa Barbara, CA. Yeah, that Santa Barbara, CA. From the looks of things, it's a nice place. Granted, we're in the working-class part of town. It's not Montecito. It's not Goleta. But it's not bad, either. Rows upon rows of small, single-story, ranch-style houses and beach cottages, cut and angled into grid-straight streets. Square front yards bordered by tidy fences. Lawns kept in order. Fords and Chevys and Toyotas parked in the driveways. "
BATTLE HARDENED Gregg Drude Offers a Few Adventure Stories From 365 Days at Sea by Kimball Taylor "' From oily black to azure to the bubbling activity under the surface, Fijian waters respond to the sky with a cosmos of their own. At night, phosphorescent creatures twinkle in the ocean, mirroring the deep cobalt dome of stars above. In the morning, chased by big game, schools of silver baitfish leap, flash, and disappear again—a daylight meteor shower in miniature. This was one of the most alive ocean environments I'd ever traveled to. And yet I noticed the same element in my longtime friend, Captain Gregg Drude of the Van Dieman. People who follow their dreams are different, or become incrementally so. He wasn't quite the guy who set sail from San Diego, CA, nearly a year prior. In retrospect, he admitted, "I was the expert sailor on board, and I knew close to nothing." Now he'd become a bona fide captain, having earned the distinction the hard way. There were a lot of nautical miles under his belt, and there were consequences either paid, or on the books, for every one of them. This accounted for the thread of seriousness that now ran through his previous devil-may-care demeanor. On board, Drude never stopped. He worked tirelessly at maintaining the boat's hundred and one parts, charted destinations, steered with one hand, and tended a fishing line with the other. He'd learned to expertly gut and skin fish while holding course in rough seas and discoursing on the odd coincidences of his iPod's shuffle selection."
HANGING IN THE BALANCE Joe Curren Takes us Through the Pitfalls, Perils and Perfection in Iceland " After watching Josh Mulcoy soul-arch through another standup barrel, I take a moment to soak it all in. From where I'm standing, surrounded by a barrier of reed-covered sand dunes on a long, crescent-shaped beach, I realize that this place could easily be mistaken for Santa Cruz, CA, mid-winter. There's a solid high-pressure delivering brilliant sunshine, a light offshore breeze, and temperatures in the low 60s. The surf: six to eight feet. But this definitely isn't Santa Cruz, or anywhere else in California for that matter. No, this is Iceland—in October. It was a gamble to come here this late in the season. Though October has the potential to be pleasant, it's also the rainiest month of the year, and it verges closely on winter. But today the cold, wet winter seems months off, and we shed our long underwear and bask in the afternoon delight. As visitors, we feel lucky to score such prime conditions—it's nicer than anything we could have imagined. But while our afternoon in the sun brings us nothing but satisfaction, for Icelanders, these warm, California-like days have become a concern. Locals claim they're more common now than they've ever been, and they know, up here, it's not supposed to be this way"   THE GRIND Welcome to Pro Surfing's Minor Leagues Where Dreams Go to Die by Jake Howard " Hank Gaskell had a shocker on his last mission to France. Fresh off the plane from Paris, the WQS rookie arrived in Hossegor with nowhere to stay. Hotels were either packed full or way too far out of his price range. So, with no other options, he slept on the beach. No big deal. He's done that plenty of times back home on Maui. But the little corner of France in which he found himself was unfamiliar territory. That point became shockingly clear when he awakened to find every single bag he'd packed stolen. But there was no time to mourn his loss—he had to ready himself for his upcoming heat, just a couple of hours away. The waves were bad—really bad. He borrowed a board for the one-foot slop and did his best to get a feel for it, but it was tough hassling with 40 other guys preparing for battle in such horrible conditions. Nevertheless, when he viewed the heat sheets he felt confident that he could pull through the first round. There was nobody to be concerned about, as far as he could tell. But, sure enough, those nobodies got a lead on him. With Gaskell needing just a 2.5 to get to the next round, with more than three minutes to go, they pounced. He spent those last three minutes being chased around the horrible shorebreak, looking for any semblance of a rideable wave. It never came. C'est la vie. That was Hank Gaskell's trip to France. "