A few months ago I traveled with crazy Basque surfer Kepa Acero and Californian Dane Gudauskas to surf the central African coast. Thanks to the hard work of conservationists like Mike Fey, in parts of Gabon, primal forest still laps up on white sand beaches. Elephants and hippos walk on the sand, and at times, the land seems more wild than the sea. Surfer magazine made a short clip about the trip:
“Kimball Taylor knows with love, no border is impermeable.” —Luis Alberto Urrea, author of The Devil’s Highway: A True Story
It wasn’t surprising when the first abandoned bicycles were found along the dirt roads and farmland just across the border from Tijuana—the area’s residents were accustomed to all kinds of refuse and detritus—but the bikes kept coming: mountain bikes, touring bikes, BMXs, and beach cruisers, all piling up, day after day. They went from curiosity, to nuisance, to phenomenon. But until they caught the eye of journalist Kimball Taylor, only a small cadre of human smugglers—coyotes—and migrants could say how or why they’d gotten there. This is the true story of 7,000 bikes that made an incredible journey and one young man from Oaxaca who arrived at the border with nothing but the clothes on his back, built a small empire, and then vanished. Taylor follows the trail of the border bikes as they make their way through a surprisingly diverse spectrum of society’s most powerful institutions, and, with the help of an unlikely source, he reconstructs the rise of one of Tijuana’s most innovative coyotes. Touching on issues of immigration and globalization, as well as the history of the US/Mexico border, The Coyote’s Bicycle is at once an immersive investigation of an outrageous occurrence and a true-crime, rags-to-riches, coming-of-age story.
The tale of my growing radiation fear as I traipsed through North Eastern Japan—meeting and interviewing local surfers—is finally out in Surfer magazine’s big issue. All of the contamination paranoia on the West Coast of the United States got me pondering the plight of surfers closest to the Fukushima-Daiichi meltdown. What were they thinking, I wondered. Pick up a copy and find out.
Along with Alex Gray and Pete Devries, cover boy Josh Mulcoy struck gold on their exploration of the Aluetian Islands. Also in the issue is my profile of Josh, a surf wander whose flare for extreme conditions was almost predetermined.
I’d like to thank the good editors at The Surfer’s Journal for excerpting my essay “Margaritaville,” for issue 23.2. The piece details my visit with the Gulf Coast’s Sterling and Yancy Spencer during the B.P. Oil Spill of 2010. As soon as I arrived, a hurricane formed off of the Yucatan Peninsula, which meant unexpected waves but also that millions of gallons of crude oil could wash ashore with the swell. We surfed until it did. The story is printed in Drive Fast and Take Chances: Fair Warning from Surfers.
In 1929, surfing pioneer Tom Blake built the first camera water housing to protect a Graflex camera he’d bought off of Duke Kahanamoku. Blake paddled out with the camera and housing resting on the deck of his redwood “plank” surfboard. The photos he made from the Waikiki lineup captured the experience of surfing in such a unique fashion, were seen as so novel, they were published in the LA Times and National Geographic. The invention of the camera housing would lead to images made from the bottom of the ocean to the heights of the stratosphere.
And it’s just one of the many advances surfers have made in POV photography. In Surfer’s big issue, I take a look at the phenomenon of self-capture that we’re living through now. Nicknamed the “selfie,” snapping one’s own photo, or POV, has been viewed as both pedestrian and cutting-edge. But given the ubiquity of POV cameras, will the strength of numbers lead somewhere new?
You’re camping at this spot because you love it.
But you may have to break the law to do so.
This presents problems.
Beware, the bushes may be full of people.
You’re just as likely to spook someone, as you are of being spooked.
More than three illegal campsites together is called a slum.
The negatives of not being able to blare music or light a campfire are balanced by the thrill successfully evading lifeguards, park rangers, military and security personnel.
Good places to hide an encampment are also good places for surfers to shit.
Tics have lime disease, hobos have knives, and your camping partner has crabs.
So, this isn’t boy scouts, grown men need to bring their own fricken tents.
One of you better bring a shovel.
In the lineup, there’s a quite confidence in knowing that you’re not a commuter.
But camping at your favorite spot can net you exactly zero additional waves.
And it’s a slippery slope, camping at your spot makes you something very close to a bum.