Blog

Portugal

A Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing

I woke up in the middle of the night to the musical stylings of inebriated tourists, screaming the lyrics of classic hit songs at the top of their lungs. The following morning was the same but different; 6 of 1, dozen of the other. We were constantly yelled at by aggressive bodyboarders for even looking at a wave in their lineup. Apparently in Portugal, whoever yells the loudest gets the wave.
(continue below)

We swallowed our pride, surfed what was available and always anticipated tomorrow. This unfortunate continuance became an unbreakable pattern of our own perception. But where did we go wrong? The swell had arrived, our AirB&B owner played tour guide and we even found a Swedish local intel who advised where to surf with the various tides and wind. The wind. That damn wind! The idea that howling wind from the North was the new offshore is nothing more than a wolf wrapped in sheep’s clothing.

Moments of perfection is all you need to trick an Instagram audience. As far as everyone back home was concerned, we were absolutely scoring. Groundhog day had started to form within our crews routine: Up at 5am, to check every nearby break at first light and take advantage of our saving grace - light NE wind. Nothing says desperation like the salvation of cross-shore wind. Somewhere between our brief morning surfs and afternoon espresso, this wind would unfavourably switch and build, right on cue. Causing us to spend the rest of our precious daylight in a cramped van driving up and down the coast praying to find a nook or cranny for protection. Then finally settling for a Super Bock and a sunset, which is always a 5-Star rating.

For the media men of this particular endeavour, our productivity was compared to digging a hole in a brick wall with a tea spoon; You’ll get through eventually, just have to keep chipping away. We were running on the fumes of empty wine bottles and optimism at this point, to keep team moral high. The forecast continued to promise us our day of glory, but in reality we were continuously haunted by the undesirable Northern gusts. One day? One session? One hour?! That’s all we needed to be able to leave with some sense of accomplishment.

Noah’s surf film ‘Transition’ is what brought us all together and that theme of transitioning is what progressed our spirits and adjusted our attitude toward this search of unrealistic perfection. Somewhere between Michael’s early departure and Shannon late arrival is where we all transitioned to becoming content with our current situation. The weight on our shoulders was lifting, about what this was or what it could be. It’s never comforting to view photos and watch videos of previously pumping conditions, wondering “Why not here? Why not now?” It’s unbelievable how social media has unintentionally achieved perceiving that everywhere is always better than where you are. Comparison is the thief of joy.

With our stint in Europe coming to an end, we discovered all the cliche sayings were true: That good things do come to those who wait, persistence does pay off and nice guys do finish last. That last one’s ironic, I know. But on our final day of the trip, we were graciously blessed with a sweet breeze from the East. What we had been waiting for this whole time was ours to embrace. Not only that, but we discovered a completely empty beach break to enjoy all to ourselves. Not even a bodyboarder in sight. This time the only people shouting at us were each other, into set waves.

North Shore 2017

Sync with the Sea
by Marcus Paladino

My peripheral vision must have gotten the best of me as I stealthily watched the other lensmen repositioning themselves for an incoming attack on the horizon. These are guys like Laserwolf, Eric Tomlinson and Hawaii’s own Zak Noyle. To a world within the world, they’re considered gods among mere mortals. Documenting others execute the art of cheating death, all while laughing in the face of the grim reaper themselves, they perfectly time their dives in preparation for an approaching set wave that unexpectedly swung wide into the channel. Though I had already successfully avoided several rogue waves that session, I suppose fatigue was a factor for my indecisiveness and my poorly executed attempt was slightly delayed. I felt the roaring pound of the sea explode above me and gently caress the back of my legs as I swam underneath it, my body arched upward and I began to start surfacing, but felt the repercussions of my failure from the raw power of the Pacific Ocean in full force. It grabbed me by scruff of my neck and ripped me backwards, a definite horse collar penalty. The force simultaneously snatched the camera out of my predominant grip and I began to uncontrollably toss and turn while being dragged underwater. I was repeating to myself the wise words Zak had told me prior to swimming out together, "do NOT panic. The ocean will always let you go... Eventually."

Taking a set on the head was nothing new. I was fairly used to swimming in maxed out beaches back home and powerful slabs along the coast, but never in my life had I ever felt such intense energy like this. The North Shore has been known to make an example out of even the most experienced watermen. Time continued to pass and I wondered exactly when the ocean was planning on letting me go. I couldn’t tell which way was up. When I opened my eyes, all I saw was black. This was concerning, then I hit the bottom of the ocean floor. Thankfully the recent string of North swells had piled up plenty of sand to soften the impact. I was running out of breath, but was relieved to at least feel something limit my descent. I firmly planted my feet and pushed upwards, only to be rejected and sent right back to where I’d started. I regrouped and attempted my projection to the surface once more, but was denied again. Beat by beat my heart was pounding harder. The air was starting to escape my nostrils, bubble by bubble. I frantically pushed my fins away from the sand and started kicking as hard as could, only to continuously graze the toe-edge of my flippers repeatedly, as if completely anchored. I fought to swim vertically and was about to reach my lung capacity. Then, all of a sudden, a very real, unanticipated thought occurred. I’ll never forget the feeling of genuine curiosity and calmness it provoked. Without fear, panic, sadness, or anger, I subconsciously thought the most honest question anyone can ask themselves, "is the how I'm going to die?"

One week earlier, in the middle of the night, I was in the back of a cab at the Honolulu airport trying to recall all of Mike Brophy’s half asleep instructions on how to find the RVCA house. Through the poor service of my Canadian cell phone cutting in and out I remember hearing "just let yourself in." As if a loyal friend or family member, I was granted permission to make myself at home in a place I’d never been, surrounded by people I’d even never met. A few hours later I woke up on the couch to the sound of waves detonating on the beach, I stumbled over to the sliding glass door and pressed my face against it and let my eyes adjust. The world famous Off The Wall came into focus straight out front, steps away from the backyard. I was situated dead centre of the Seven Mile Miracle, all while simply standing in the living room in my underwear. “You get in late?” I had been startled to find a fellow underwear dwelling early riser, investigating me while I had been admiring his everyday view.

"Back in the 60's I use to draw a circle in the sand around photographers and say 'You see see this line? Do not cross it. I'll bring you food, I'll bring you beer, just keep shooting." Herbie Fletcher explained as we drank our morning coffee together. He would ask trivia-like questions, putting my surf history knowledge to the test. As a Canadian, I don’t think he actually anticipated a correct answer from me, nor did I ever end up giving him one. But he would enthusiastically explain to me about the culture his generation created for us and the impact his family had on our sport. I use to think that I knew enough about the history of surfing, the North Shore and the Fletcher family. That is, until I sat down with the man himself and had him explain it to me as thoroughly as he did. RVCA is more than a brand, it’s a family. Uniquely sponsoring all walks of life; Surfers (shortboard, longboard and everything in-between), skateboarders, body surfers, photographers, musicians, graffiti artists, MMA & Jiu-Jitsu fighters, gourmet chefs, the Hawaiian Water Patrol and iconic legends like Herbie. Their presence in Oahu is undeniable, as they spend more than six weeks every winter bringing all of these completely separate advocates together to bond and get to know each other. Masters of their own universe, misfits in another. Outcasts who would never find each other running in the same social circles, living under one roof in one of the most beautiful places in the world. A delicate balance of opposites.

The television got completely harassed with profanity and applause, as we watched our fellow advocate Ricardo Christie battle for his professional competitive life at Sunset Beach. Exhaling with him on every maneuver, as if we were surfing with him at that very moment. We were opinionated with critique for the judges and other competitors wave quality in comparison, but Ric fell short in the final minutes and just like that, his QS year came to a close. Coming short of re-qualifying for the CT, after falling off ‘The Dream Tour’ last season. He joined us on the porch when he returned from the contest site, and we all gathered to acknowledge his presence. He was greeted with gestures of embrace but no words were said, none were needed. "The best things in life are when you commit" he explained as we celebrated that night. Whether it’s paddling into a steep wave, telling someone you love them, or following your dreams. Commitment is the first step in achieving anything worth pursuing, sometimes you have to take a chance on yourself. It’s what got him on tour, and it’s what got me to Hawaii. Dedicated to capturing high-performance surfing and pushing myself to show my value and gain experience. Taking the risk of swimming out at one of the most dangerous waves, because I was invited to join one of the best surf photographers in the world. People don’t get these kind of opportunities every day, and I wasn’t going to leave with any regrets. I was committed. Though, it may have been my lack of commitment as to why I ended up uncomfortably underwater in the first place...

The answer to that grave question was no. I was released from my underwater prison and finally given room to breathe. When I looked back and saw a second wave approaching, I knew my swim that night was done. As a right of passage, I took my well-deserved beating and was quickly washed up on shore. Giving the lifeguards on duty the thumbs up as I walked out of the water, I decided to take a minute to myself, and so sat on the sand watching the sunset burn up the sky. In that moment, I realized exactly how lucky I really was. To be healthy, loved, accomplished and most of all, truly happy. To be there, in the paradise I thought only existed in the movies and magazines. Being mentored by an icon like Zak, one of most genuine and down to earth human beings I’ve ever met. Supported by this incredible company and invited to be surrounded by like-minded individuals who I’m proud to now call friends. I laughed to myself and couldn’t stop smiling. When we walked back to the house, I was awaited by my newly acquired family on the porch with cold beers probing a question of their own... "How about that set Marcus took on the head?!"

Canadian Nationals 2018

This past weekend Wickaninnish beach played host to the 2018 Canadian National Championships and I'm honoured to have been asked by the Canadian Surfing Association to document the event. Out of the 8000+ photos I shot, 600+ were selected for the CSA but here I present you with a mere 40+ images. This gallery isn't actually a very good interpretation of the entire contest, these are simply a few of my favourites for you to view and enjoy.

The Other West Coast

Sitting down on the couch to sip my morning coffee, my horoscope reads, “Leap before you look, go for gold, and make your move! Most people live their lives as if they have another in the bank; but not you, not now!” This is exactly what I need to hear an hour before starting my drive from Tofino, B.C. to Santa Cruz, California. With my 2002 Subaru Forrester as my home on wheels, I begin my journey with two friends, convoying behind their van full of surfboards.

Highway 101 has a reputation of taking almost double the time of the I-5 freeway, but is also one of the most scenic drives you can do along the coast of North America. As we continue our descent I can’t help but notice the subtle change in trees along the road, shifting from the Douglas Fir and Cedars I grew up with to the Red Alder and Hemlocks of the Oregon coast. One familiarity though is the rain. Apparently we’re in the storm of the century, but in reality the amount of rain seems equivalent to an average winter day back home. However, when a region doesn’t get precipitation like this for decades, something usually has to give. People are being evacuated from their homes – in the Santa Cruz area alone there is an estimated 40 million dollars in road damage from landslides and floods.

Californian locals warn us about surfing during and after storms, how all the sewage drains into the ocean adjacent to popular breaks. That’s definitely different from home. This amount of rainfall provides more flow from the city and potentially causes illness and/or sinus infections. Maybe it’s the fact that Tofitians always surf in the rain (when else would we surf?) or because my friends and I haven’t surfed in days, either way we decide to take the risk.

As the storm finally passes through, the California I imagined reveals itself: sunny skies, point breaks and salty crowds. It’s overwhelming how many breaks there are, every nook and cranny hiding a wedge or a peak. It’s amazing to see how much diversity there is along the coast from just Santa Cruz alone. But interestingly enough, the locals don’t seem to have any burning desire to take advantage of surfing a plethora of different waves...

“I really only surf one spot when I’m here.”
“I haven’t surfed in town since I was, like, 17.”
“It’s like a 20 minute drive, you boys don’t want to go all the way there.”

(continues below slideshow.)

... these are just a few common quotes from established local surfers. It seems that surfers here stick to their zone like how people choose a particular grocery store. I thought home (with the 2000 people that live in Tofino) was unique because everyone knows everyone else in the water. Turns out the same can be said for a town of over 50,000 residents, so we obviously stick out like someone who’s wearing suspenders with a belt. Thankfully, trading the set waves of our mushy/messy beach breaks to surf the so-called ‘scraps’ on the inside and shoulders of sets on perfectly peeling A-frames is an acceptable change to our wave diet. No one’s gotten sick yet.

Driving along the CA-1 highway, having a friend point out different breaks every five seconds, eventually gets me thinking about home and the potential of not only Vancouver Island but the entire British Columbia coastline. If we could get an accessible road that goes along our entire coast, the possibilities of undiscovered waves will be endless. Yet, would we lose touch on how important the natural world around us is? This hypothetical road could end up being harmful to the beautiful environment that we’re known for and love. So maybe we didn’t get ill from polluted rain water in California, but something about knowing there’s familiar faces and clean, cold water in Tofino has me a little homesick nonetheless. I know there’s a cure for that back north - the other west coast.

Return to France

Almost one year after my first trip to France, I returned to the land of baguettes in hopes of a new euro experience with Pete Devries, Noah Cohen and Adam Chilton. Instead of driving up and down the coast living in an RV, we settled into our humble beach house in the heart of Hossegor for 2 weeks. This trip was featured on Surfline, but I had so many other photos that I couldn't help but share. Enjoy!

Check out "Dune Days" on Surfline.com

To see Adam's edit of Noah click here!