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Out Of The Woods
The SURFER Profile with Canada’s Peter Devries.

by
Kate MacLennan

There’s a bone-chilling gale today, accompanied by a stampeding, horizontal rain that stings on contact. This weather system, like all others that blow through here, came by way of the frigid north pacific, crossing thousands of miles of wind-swept seas before reaching this tiny corner of Vancouver Island, Canada. The island is 300 miles long from top to bottom, but it’s hardly a straight shot. There’s nearly 700 miles of west-facing coast due to the hundreds of coves, inlets, and headlands. Yet the entire island is a veritable catcher’s mitt for winter storms. Trees and power lines are being toppled in this storms path. Entire communities have been left powerless. The roads are flooded and air and ferry traffic is cancelled, stranding hundreds, and yet, while they’re seeking warmth, Peter Devries is going surfing.

“Are you kidding me?” he says, smiling. “This isn’t even windy. It’s maybe 30 knots. But you can still probably do airs today. If you found the right section you could even land it.” At first glance, this brand of optimism could easily be confused with lunacy—and it often is, but Devries is used to it. You have to be if you’re going to be a surfer in Canada, and if one thing is clear about Devries, it’s that he’s a very committed surfer. He’s arguably Canada’s best right now, but you’ll never catch him saying anything of the sort. And granted, being a good surfer from Canada has never meant much in the greater surf scene, but guys like Pete are transforming things north of the border. Canada and its surfers are being taken far more seriously today, and these days, Peter Devries is playing a huge role in all of that.

The Path To Taiji
Embedded with David Rastovich and His Mission To Save The Cetaceans
by Steve Barilotti

Leaving Kyoto, two stops to Shinagawa Station. We are hurtling along at a disconcerting rate, averaging 150 mph on the straightaways. So fast that we create a mini sonic boom when exiting a long tunnel, blasting out like the bullet this train is named for. Out the window a blur of industrialized, tropical landscape pickets by: bucolic, green, woodcut rice paddies sprouting Good Smile fishcake factories and dingy apartment blocks. Our car, rocking maternally, is loaded with somnolent mid-level office samurai nodding off over their canned coffee and thick manga comics. If they have noted our slovenly gaijin presence, they make no outward sign of it.

Across the aisle, Justin Krumb, director/producer of Minds In The Water, is sacked out behind black wraparounds and an impenetrable hitman goatee. He’s the biggest man on the train, a foot taller and roughly twice the size of the average Tokyo sarariman sitting in our car. This makes him an easy track; especially since the Wakayama police took down everybody’s passport vitals following the second Taiji event less than 36 hours ago.

As the Super Grom Obsession Hits Overdrive the Industry Ponders the Risks

by
Jake Howard and Chris Mauro

It’s a wind blown December morning on the North Shore of Oahu. On the beach between Kammieland and Monster Mush a half dozen prepubescent gremlins are indulging in an island version of baseball. A fallen tree limb is the bat, a rotted coconut husk the ball, and several tiny 5' 6" three-fins are strategically scattered about in a loose diamond formation. It’s a fairly chaotic scene until they spot Martin Potter, the former world champion, emerging from an access trail near Rocky Point. Potter is heading down to break up the scrimmage for a different kind of practice. “Alright guys, bring it in,” he yells. Though Potts enjoyed his heyday before any of these kids were born, they show him plenty of respect by gathering around quietly. The pack of sandy, young boys, ranging in age from 8 to 16, trots in and gathers around.

One Swell, Three Spots, and a Handful of Hellmen Do Business in Early December




It was cold, unrelenting, and giant. It came from an odd angle and rendered normally predictable spots completely unwieldy. In some places it was bound by zero-vis fog, and in others it was matched with devil winds that gave would-be paddlers one more deadly element to battle. It was a giant, hairy reminder of the fact that the ocean doesn’t care about your Rhino Chaser or your PWC, that the ocean is in charge, period. But mainly it was just your standard big-winter swell, a thick and meaty monster that came straight from the west and slammed unapologetically into the West Coast of the United States, yielding giant waves at spots like Mavs, Ghost Tree, and Todos (not to mention a few hidden gems peppered in between).