I never thought I would need to write this. Or that I would need to start a new magazine that needed to do a surf trip as a reminder that we’re still unpredictable enough to fail. That the throwback of a stupid surf trip up north in a big van in California is not entirely unnecessary. And may in fact be essential. That not all is lost from our golden eras and buried in the hieroglyphics of old Counter Culture stickers, or forgotten in the glassy-eyed stare that is, “It looks kinda shitty on the webcam” or the infinite abyss that is your phone. But I think we did need this. To prove that not everything is hidden in a contract that says no vape pens or cursing on camera. Or no mistakes or hangovers or all-nighters. That we’re still human beings and we want to live and have fun and not all of us have a contract that forbids us from sinking a Proving Grounds IPA on Haight Street while still wearing our logo’d snapback.
Who would have thought that I would need to be reminded that surfing is meant to be for the youth? And not just the young, but us. The youth-FULL. I don’t care what your birth certificate says. We’re all here. We’re the ones — the youth who do things for no other reason than to wake up and wonder, just for a second, “Where the fuck am I again? Oh yeah?” And then grab a jacket and get moving again. That we still yearn to roll with the ebb and flow of the tide that exists inside a 15-seater van with nine hoodie-wearing dudes and their hangovers for hours at a time and the absolute insanity and musical diversity that it commands. Because it is rambunctious in there, and it is laughs and fun, but it is also as nostalgic and lonely as listening to old Modest Mouse songs while staring at open fields of brown and green through a windshield covered in bird shit.—Travis
Below is a collection of film photos that Nate Lawrence shot.