Surf photography is glamorous right? It’s
all gratis exotic trips, large boxes of free gear from the surf
companies DHL’d to your door and high-fiving your awfully handsome pro
surfer friends in the channel as they come blasting out of yet another
picture perfect barrel. Not to mention the free booze, endless supply
of class A’s on the house and complimentary blow-jobs...
It’s a decadent lifestyle pursued by hedonistic free spirits whose unbridled creativity can’t be constrained by working for ‘the man’. Surf photographers are gods amongst men, they are global gypsies flitting from one exotic location to another chasing swells, women, a good time and most important of all- the shot. Or that’s what us shooters would have you believe…
There are certain elements of truth. Free trips on company expenses do happen, some are amazing- like the two weeks I spent in Tahiti living it up in four-star hotels and on a huge Love Boat style pleasure cruiser (without ever having to put my hand in my pocket) shooting some of the world’s best surfers in waves only a handful of people have ever seen. There weren’t any blow jobs on tap, apparently after one of the boats waitresses got a bit too friendly with a few too many people in the Jacuzzi the year before the complimentary oral got cancelled. On the bright side there was as much gin and tonic as you could stomach; as long as you were sober enough to sign the bill over to someone else’s room. That was a good trip.
On the flip side I also did a boat trip to Holland. Yes, Holland. The
Netherlands, otherwise known as the muddy bit across from Kent. Famous
for cheese, clogs, tulips, red lights, liberal drug laws, little boys
fingering dykes and people saying “It’s very toight!” It was unlikely
proposition from the start, but theoretically waves are possible if a
solid straight north swell makes its way down the North Sea and fights
its way over the mud banks. On the plus side the boat was amazing, it
had beer taps, a chef, a blackjack table, and enough boxes (that’s
boxes mind, boxes of four bottles) of Jack Daniels, Bacardi and the
associated mixers to ensure we all died of weapons grade alcoholic
poisoning. We did actually get some waves, maybe. My only abiding
memories of the trip are me being the captains ‘go to guy’ when he
needed some sails hauling as I was the only one stupid enough to join
him in his game of jumping off the poop deck (about 8 feet above the
main deck) and flying 6 feet through thin air to connect with a rope
that needed pulling down. Which contravenes just about every health and
safety law in the land; but is hellishly good fun, especially on a
moving boat when one is a bit drunk. The other abiding memory is waking
up at three in the morning in the galley with my hands duck taped good
style to the sides of my head after an evening long game of shithead
-with JD penalties- went oh-so-horribly wrong for me. That was an
interesting trip for all the wrong reasons. Especially when I went to
get some fresh air on deck with my hands still taped to my head and
realised the melange of a bouncy, cold North Sea, a low railing and
extreme pissedness was a potentially lethal combination…
The glamour of travel manifests itself in other ways- like my second
photo trip to Madeira. Nobody mentioned in the two years since my last
visit the tap water had gone from crystalline spring water to bilharzia
central. A brief shart in bed alerted me to the fact that something was
horribly wrong and by the time I got to the bathroom I couldn’t decide
which hole to point down the bog. The chunder seemed more urgent so I
went with that option, only to unleash the full fury from both ends at
the same time. Which was (whilst technically quite impressive), I have
to admit, a low point. I can only thank the fates that our en-suite
bathroom was tiled not carpeted; which made the cleanup operation that
much easier. Similarly in the Maldives a virulent bout of food
poisoning struck the island and I spent three days of my oh so exotic
photo trip puking my ring and shitting sideways, on the plus side it
did give me the free time to read the Da Vinci code.
So, surf photography can be glamorous, exotic free trips do exist,
boxes of clothes are there for the taking (generally in lieu of
payment) and so far I’ve only managed one high-five, but it was on film
so that counts double...
Pic wise: The first shot is of Michel Bourez somewhere in the outer islands of Tahiti. He impressed the hell out of everyone on this trip and it's no surprise that he qualified for the CT.
