Delighted to announce the launch of Backwash II. 160 pages, perfect bound, and printed in full colour on FSC approved uncoated 120gsm paper in the United Kingdom.
Backwash Issue Two is a surf anthology featuring Japan, the photography of Chris Burkard and Sergio Villalba, Hamish Laing and Woody Gooch. Kalani Lattanzi swims at Nazare, Amy Kotch surfs barrels whilst pregnant and John Peck knee paddles out as he has done since 1958. Mickey Smith writes on the supersonic Ben Player, shot by Jack Johns. We feature Zio Ziegler and Chippa Wilson, Sam Bleakley and Michael Kew. Fergal confronts the topic of mental illness. In Japan we encounter David Kinoshita, Brad Gerlach, Tina Bingham, Nisi, Hiromichi Soeda and many others. Harrison Roach, Mike Lay and Jamie Brisick give their perspective. Joni Sternbach's portfolio stops the clock. Curate is packed with Kaineder, Groves, Proud, Borrow and we conclude with Demi Taylor on being a bodysurfer. The last spread is devoted to a poem by the musician Gavin Clark, RIP.
Available to buy from our brand new website.
Delighted to have another little story in the journal (and my London torso trimming across spread, photo by Jack Johns).
Wooden spoon by Joe Hart Designs, Senor Clegg, Cap'n Aiken, me at home by Henry
Moz tripping, photo by Amy Greenhough
Glad to have the opening story in this little book, well worth seeking out.
I woke up last Wednesday very early and wrote a poem about Europe. Chris made this film on Thursday and my wife, Amy Greenhough, recorded the voiceover with CJ Mirra that evening. #remain
Found my 2004 surf diary. 325 days.
Always glad in my heart to see this legend, Mr. Smith with Teddy/Juan.
All photos by Matt Unwin
One of the better days in history on our fickle corner of the east coast. The early morning as the wind swung was solid. I kooked it on one of the roundest rights I've seen emerge from this cold, dark little sea. Pushing headhigh, I swear.
Terasu have a series of my features up, including this one about a place full of fond memories.
One of the two friends who had lived nearby was killed, a tragic accident on a bike in London. His parents asked me to scatter his ashes in the water at the point, and with chicken skin running up our backs we watched as it came to life and we all surfed in his honour. After that, when I surfed there, he was there too.
My connection with it grew stronger over the years as I found more and more peculiarities in its character. I got to know the rocks underfoot, knowing where the channels were to paddle out, how to hide behind the jump rock when a big set flooded it. I learned which path to take down the cliff at any stage of tide, knew each section of the wave from end to end. Each year I would try to beat my record ride, past the hill and down through an inside section that might never link up again. There was a very small devoted crew, amongst a wider community of longboarders who thought they were locals. Three or four people who were really on it, and we were rewarded with some epic days, rides that seemed to span forever, kicking out a mile from takeoff, looking back at the lines feeling their way down the estuary. There was a time where I started to love the place, and the inevitable crowds on the forecasted days got me down. It somehow seemed a place beyond all of the stuff that comes with crowds, and I expect it still is, though I do hear stories of aggro and a full car park.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever find my way back there, and ignite the old devotion to it. As a place it has exerted more power over me than any other, yet of course it is no different without me. Whether I catch those sneaker swells with a hint of north bent, high period and not too big to draw the attention of the many, with the bar settled and the small birds dancing through the fishing cove, in the shadow of the hill and the mountain of the Stepper showing the pulses, waiting for the first set to come over the Doom Bar; it will run on and on.
There’s something in this connection to place, this deep map that every surfer builds. It’s strange now to think of all of those lines traced and the patterns they form. I expect I’ll get back to it, one of these years.
I was glad to have a piece in Forum for the Future's Long View. Entitled The Wilderness Within, it's about nurturing the part of us connected to the natural world. You can order a copy of the book here.
Wintersun and some runners at home.